Unreasonable Addiction III
by Lady Russell Holmes
Summary: A year after Otto took Clair from Seattle, revenge enters their lives, threatening to tear them apart. Sequel to UA1 and 2
1. One Year Later

Unreasonable Addiction III

Chapter One: The Fall

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth

AN: So, here we are in the third and so far longest volume of this work. Yay.

Clair smiled as she clipped the article out of the Bugle, making sure she got the whole thing, and taped it into her scrapbook. The book bristled with newsprint, some of it fresh and grey, some so old it was yellow, interspersed with glossy photos and neatly-written notes in her own handwriting. She flipped through the earlier pages, looking back over the past year as she held it in her hands. It had been busy, the time that had passed since Otto had taken her from Seattle.

Around her, her lab hummed its normal low-level noise. Brightly-lit and cluttered, it closely resembled the lab that she had left behind in Seattle, but it was larger and had better equipment. Right now, she was waiting for one of her current experiments to finish a cycle in the centrifuge, and had taken advantage of the rare idle moment to collapse on her vast, squashy couch and catch up on the scrapbook, which she'd been neglecting lately. It was a secret, so she couldn't work on it when Otto was around, but today, he was out. As long as she heard him come back...

So absorbed was she that she didn't hear the movement outside the door until the knob turned and the door was thrown open. On the other side stood Octavius, actuators swirling about him and a rather disturbingly large grin on his face, of the kind he hadn't worn for years. Behind his goggles a huge shiner decorated one eye and his leather coat was scuffed and torn in places. His hair fell about his head and shoulders in wild strings and one hand bore rivulets of blood. Despite all that, he was still grinning proudly, and one arm was curled around a metal storage container bearing several warning stickers.

"I've got it," he said rather mysteriously, holding up the box and walking into the room. "This will make things a lot easier--" he stopped, seeing the binder still in her lap. "What's that?" he asked casually, returning his attention to the box.

Startled, she snapped the notebook shut and looked up at him. "I thought I told you to knock," she started peevishly, but then she saw the blood. The notebook landed on the couch and fell open as she jumped up and looked at him closely. "What did you get?" she asked skeptically. "It looks like you ran into Spider-Man. Or barbed wire."

He grinned again and finished unhooking the latches on the box, opening it carefully, Inside, nestled in about three inches of packing foam, was a small collection of chips connected by their dendrite-like wire fringes. "It's a wetware control array. Highly experimental, but one that has the potential to increase neural connectivity a hundredfold. The arachnid tried to stop me taking it," he said, looking inside the box. Then he looked up and grinned again. "And this." One actuator held up a carefully bound array of mechanical arms and waldos.

"A micro-surgical array!" Clair exclaimed happily. "And right when I need it, too. I'm trying to recreate the first test's results." She gestured to the nearest table, where a rainbow of chemicals was set up around a microscope. "Observant." She looked at the other item he'd brought. "You're trying to improve the arms again?"

"I'm nothing if not observant," he murmured, curling an arm around her. The actuator placed the microsurgery array on the table. "And yes, I'm improving the arms again."

"Faster or stronger?" she asked, well aware of his habits by now. "Or both?"

He looked at the array again, his fingers absently toying with her hair. "This array will make my connexion to them much faster. That'll increase their speed, maybe fast enough to finally reliably catch that arachnid..."

She reached up to lace her fingers together behind his neck, looking at him. "Good luck with that. Are you going to work on it now, or do you have time for a 'walk'?" She smiled mischievously. "I haven't been out of the lab in days and days, and this last batch still has hours to go before I can move forward."

He smiled, leaning forward to nuzzle her neck. "Mmmm, I think I might have time." His gaze flicked to the couch. "But first..." One actuator reached out and snagged the binder. "What's this?"

"No!" she yelped, trying to snatch the scrapbook back before he opened it. It would be embarrassing if he saw the pages inside.

The actuator held it over her head and another joined it, opening the book and affording him a look inside. His grin faded as he saw the clippings and photos and notes, replaced by a puzzled expression. He looked at her again, still puzzled. She gave it up as a lost cause and shrugged, a small, embarrassed smile on her lips. "I've been collecting your news clippings. I've been doing it ever since we first met. It's a bit of a habit now, even though I left all my old scrap books in Seattle." She looked up at the notebook above her head, out of her reach. "That's that time last month. I haven't gotten a newspaper since then, so I don't have anything new to put in."

He looked back up at the book. "Why would you want to do that?" he asked, genuinely curious. It went without saying that he wasn't exactly accustomed to people collecting information on him who weren't either law enforcement or obsessive stalkers. He looked back down at her and her embarrassed smile.

"I don't know," she said, looking back at him. "When it started, it was just a 'get to know what just happened to me' thing. I'd been given a lot of information about you by the FBI, and it wasn't sinking in, so I did my own research. And then... I just didn't stop. So it's a habit now. My very own Ockumentary."

The smile returned, a wryly amused expression. "'Ockumentary?'" he echoed. The book was returned to the couch. "It sounds like a terribly cheesy thing you'd see on an entertainment news programme." He leaned in again, his lips against her jawline. "I rather like it."

"Mmm," she said, tipping her head back. "I'll publish it someday. After the TV movie of your life story comes out. Who do you think should play you?"

"Heh," he said against her ear. "I don't know... Sean Connery, perhaps."

She snorted, then turned to capture his mouth. "Who has a high opinion of himself, then?" she murmured playfully.

"Mmmm," he rumbled against her lips before smiling. "Can you blame me?" he murmured, arms pulling her closer against him. He leaned in again and licked her ear, catching it between his lips.

"No, of course not," she answered, closing her eyes. Her fingers slid into his hair, running over the curve of his skull. "I meant Connery, if he thinks he could play you." Her other hand ran down the back of his neck, then traced a light line over his shirt, following the shape of the harness before resting on the base of one of the actuators.

"Flatterer," he chuckled, his hands slipping under her labcoat and under her shirt. An actuator slipped up her leg, the metal cool and smooth against her skin, and he leaned forward further, bending her backward, his fingers slipping up her back and his teeth teasing her earlobe.

"Can you blame me?" she laughed, letting her head fall back, her body curved against his. Her hands found his waist, pulling him against her.

His lips moved to her neck, slow and hot, tongue drawing against her skin. "No, I don't suppose I can," he replied.

Her fingers combed through his hair. "One year," she said softly after a moment, looking at the black strands as if they held the calender.

"Hmm?" he said, slitting his eyes open again. "One year what?" he mumbled, scritching lightly behind her ear.

"One year since you showed up in my living room in Seattle," she said, smiling and closing her eyes at the caress, cat-like.

He smiled at that, making a quiet, amused sound. "It's been quite a year, hasn't it?" he murmured, his lips grazing her ear. "Any regrets?"

"Hmm," she said, considering. "No, I don't think so. None that compare to what I would have felt if I'd stayed behind, at any rate. How about you?"

"None whatsoever," he replied, smiling against her ear.

"Hn," she said happily, turning her head to look at him. "Are you going to fall asleep on me?" Far from feeling sleepy herself this time, she felt energized and playful. She toyed with his hair, idly braiding and unbraiding a lock.

His eyes opened again and tracked to the side to look at her hands as they played with his hair. "If I do, I'm afraid I'll wake up with cornrows," he replied drily. "Maybe a little fresh air will wake me up, some? You said you wanted to go out."

She pushed herself up, nodding. "I've been down here for days. I don't even know what time it is." She looked around for her watch, but she'd taken it off at some point in the experiment and set it somewhere. "Not cornrows," she said teasingly after a pause. "But it would be interesting to see what you look like with a braid."

He favoured her with a dubious look. "A braid?" he echoed. She could have sworn he rolled his eyes behind those inscrutable goggles. "I'd look Chinese, that's what I'd look like. Like I should be adding kung fu to my fighting habits."

She snerked at that, not able to picture it in the slightest. "Okay, bad idea." She fingered her own hair, which was currently in that awkward length between too long and not long enough, then abandoned that train of thought and collapsed on the couch to put her shoes on."Anywhere you want to go, in particular? I just want to get out for a while."

"Hnn," he said, thinking. "I'd like to just go for a walk, I suppose. Nothing so concrete and limiting as a destination."

Clair nodded agreement. "I just want out of here for a few hours." She headed upstairs into the house proper to find her long, dark grey coat, leaving the lab door open behind her. It was, incredibly enough, hung in the hall closet where it belonged, and smelled slightly stale as she put it on. "How long has it been since I last went out?"

"I've no idea," Octavius replied, retrieving his own longcoat from the couch where it had been dropped and shrugging it on, over the actuators. It effectively hid them from view as they curled up under it. "I'd hazard a guess and say maybe too long?" he raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, I would say so," she said, pulling a wool cap low over her ears. "I'm just so close, I can't think about anything else. Just this one last batch of calibration tests, and the Zombie Virus is ready for testing."

"Testing on what?" came the reply as he dug in the pocket of his longcoat and produced a pair of small, oval sunglasses with which he replaced his goggles. He buttoned the coat, but left the collar open so that it framed his face and neck instead of hiding it. It was amazing what a few subtle changes did to make one less instantly recognisable.

"Human testing," she clarified softly, pulling on a pair of gloves that she fished from the pockets. He stood over her, looking down at her for a long moment, apparently thinking. "Are you prepared for such an eventuality as will inevitably occur if your endeavour is attempted here?" he asked.

She studied her glove, adjusting the fit with excessive care. "I know," she said, her voice very carefully neutral. "I wouldn't be able to let the subjects leave anyway. Not knowing what they would know, at any rate. I may have a fix for that. It's one of the facets of the Zombie Virus that I'm going to test."

"What would that be?" he asked, pulling the door open. Cold air wafted through the doorway, brushing across their faces.

"I've been working on a new viral carrier that will deliver the serum to certain parts of the brain, and not others, and then simply release it, without attaching to the soma." Some of her passion for the science crept back into her voice, replacing the neutrality. "It can wipe out an entire cortex and leave all neighbouring parts untouched."

He couldn't help it. A smirk crossed his features as she said this. They left the house and made their way out into the chill, their breath little puffs of steam before their faces. "And what would you plan on doing with that?" he asked, his tone ever so slightly wolfish. "Erase memories?"

She nodded. "But I couldn't make it specific. It's all or none. And right after, I could repair the damaged area with the standard version of the ZV, but the lost memories would be gone. The subject would be a blank slate." She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, staying close as they walked through the quiet urban neighbourhood.

"Hmmm," he rumbled, still smiling. "That's got ... potential."

"Mmhmm." She frowned slightly. "And with the right carrier virus, I could specialize it to attack any part of the brain, or the outlying nervous system. I could give it a delay, or make it contagious by contact, fluid, or air."

He leaned close, putting his arm around her, and murmured into her hair. "Why, sweet, innocent Doctor Holmes, I do believe I've corrupted your thinking. I told you you'd end up putting me out of business." A quiet chuckle followed that, before he straightened, his gaze forward again. "May I ask why you're suddenly entertaining these options?"

"Osborn," she growled. "Oscorp published findings on a neuroregenesis serum two weeks ago. It's my Zombie Juice, almost word for word. He must have gotten hold of some of my research."

Octavius stopped, head tilted to one side, looking at her as though seeing something new about her. Perhaps he was. "Revenge?" he asked simply.

"Retaliation," she said, scowling at nothing present. "The ZJ is _mine_. First, the government tried to take it from me, and now Osborn is trying to take credit. This can not be allowed to happen."

He nodded and put a hand on her back, starting her walking again. "Retaliation needs to be planned," he said. "Do you have a plan?"

She nodded, then shook her head. "Only a vague one. Oscorp is very particular about the compositions of most of its biochemical output. To the point of trademark. If I could get those specifications, I could mimic them."

"Specifications of what, exactly?" he asked. A wind blew past them, stirring his hair. Someone walked by the other way, but barely gave them a second glance.

"It's a coded protein marker. They include it in all their bioware, so it can be traced back to them." She tightened her collar against the wind. "Its exact design is one of Oscorp's big industrial secrets. So, if an unknown virus were to be found, bearing that very particular protein marker, Oscorp would be given the credit." She grinned. "Or the blame, as the case may be."

"Aahh," he said, that smirk returning to his features. "You plan to obtain a sample, replicate this protein marker, then make a few choice... showings of your Zombie Virus?"

"That would be the plan, yes," she answered, her own smile fading. "Deciding what form for those 'showings' to take is the problem."

He looked forward again. A car drove by along the otherwise empty street. "Targets need to be chosen strategically. Effects of the virus need to be chosen for the greatest effect," he mused quietly.

"I would want the effect to be reversible, so not in the memory centers," she said, studying one house, prematurely sporting a frosting of Christmas lights. "And contained. I'm not looking to become a terrorist. Maybe have it attack the optic centers. Or the Brocha area..." She trailed off, thinking about it.

"In other words, leave them blind or aphasic?" he mused. "Hmm. That could be devastating enough if administered to the proper target." Octavius made a short, amused sound. "I'm suddenly taken with the image of the media circus that would result should J. Jonah Jameson suddenly go aphasic..." he let that trail off, looking sideways at her.

Clair stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Jameson... Heehaahaahee..." She took a deep breath. "Well, it would get him back for all those articles, but my scrapbook would suffer. It might become non-fiction."

"We can't have that," came the reply as he slipped an arm around her again. "I certainly wouldn't want to put a stop to your ... 'Ockumentary.'" They continued walking. "However, you must admit, he's a nicely visible target. Or, I suppose, you could go with something a little more predictable, such as the Governor."

"No," she said, leaning against him. "I think Jameson would be perfect. To take the ostensible king of media in this city and take away his ability to communicate at all, the irony is appealing. And he's more accessible than the Governor, not to mention that Osborn probably has a viable grudge against him."

"I'm almost certain he does. Anyone who figures prominently in the news around here has a grudge of some kind against Jameson. I, myself wouldn't mind seeing him die horribly, but this virus of yours is just as good, if not more deliciously ironic." There was a moment of silence as their feet squished through the slush.

"I would eventually have to undo it," she said objectively. "Probably. For a price."

"A steep one, no doubt," he added, nodding.

"Oh yes," she nodded, smiling. "Everything he's worth in payment for years of libel." Her glasses reflected the light from the houses around them, and she looked up at him. "I have to test the Virus first, though, before I can do any of this. Wouldn't do to kill him; that might not incite the curiousity that would reveal the Osborn connection."

"No, I daresay it wouldn't," he replied airily. A beat and then his mood sobered. "Back to the original question, then. What do you plan to do about testing?"

She sighed deeply. "I need subjects. At least four would be good, for now. Randomly chosen, except that I need at least one with serious neural damage. An addict, perhaps. And I need a place to keep them."

He nodded again. "How do you plan to obtain said subjects?" he asked. It became obvious that he was leading her, testing her, but for what? Her resolve? Her ingenuity? Her initiative?

"The best way to obtain anything," she said, slipping back into that neutral tone. "Take them. I can't assume that anyone would volunteer to have their brain experimented on. I'm looking for people who will not be missed overmuch, obviously. There's always the chance that the test will fail, or that the results will be more extreme than I predict." She nodded to Otto, acknowledging his own past with her invention. "I would like your help."

"My help," he mused. They squished along in silence for a short while. "All right then," he said presently. "Procuring subjects shouldn't be terribly difficult."

"Thank you," she said, slightly formal. It wasn't a request she'd been comfortable making. "I can put them in the guest rooms on the ground floor. I'll need to put locks on those doors..." She trailed off, staring at nothing in particular as they wandered down the street.

"What do you plan to do once the testing has finished, though?" he asked, again leading her thoughts.

"Erase their memories and turn them loose," she said blankly. "Maybe keep track of one or two for a follow-up." She shrugged and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. "It's the experiment that's important, not the subjects."

More silence, their surroundings eerily quiet and dead. Eventually he spoke again. "You don't sound as though you've much enthusiasm for this endeavour."

"For the experiment, yes. There's nothing more important. For the methods I'm going to have to use, no," she admitted, not looking at him. "I don't understand this," she said, shaking her head. "I don't have a problem plotting injury to Jameson, or Osborn. But the idea of doing the same things to some homeless people that no one would ever miss gives me second thoughts."

"Because Osborn and Jameson have done things to earn your wrath, so to speak. These others haven't," he pointed out quietly.

She looked at him then. "Then can I justify doing this? I could try to find volunteers, but it would take much longer, and run the risk of discovery."

He stopped, looking at her. "Who would you need to justify it _to_? Instead of trying to find a reason to justify your actions, perhaps you need to consider whether your goal is really worth the steps you're going to need to take in order to meet it."

She tipped her head back, holding her hat with one hand while looking up into the sky.

"This project is worth anything to me. It's _mine_." She looked back at him, her face set and her eyes calm. "There is nothing more important than completing it."

"So you _don't _feel as though you need to justify your actions in completeing your goal?" he asked one eyebrow raised.

She grimaced. "I will finish this. If I can justify the means to myself, it just makes it easier. But I don't _need _it, no."

"No, you don't, really," he said quietly and continued walking.

"I'm learning," she said, leaning against him as they walked. "Adapting."

He slipped an arm around her again. "It's all one can do," he replied rather cryptically.

She hugged him one-armed, feeling the actuators beneath the coat. "Enough of philosophy," she murmured. "I want my feet off the ground. Feel like going downtown?"

He looked down at her and a slight smile crossed his features. "I suppose I could oblige." He fished the goggles out of his pocket and replaced the shades with them, then buttoned the collar of his coat. There was a great flapping of leather and the actuators snaked out of the holes in his coat, curling around them both. He picked her up in his arms.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling. "I feel like flying," she murmured irreverently, humming a few bars of the song.

He made a quiet, amused sound. "I suppose this is the closest one will get," he murmured back, arms tightening around her. The actuators grabbed a building and lifted them upward, climbing to the roof and they set off across the rooftops with swift, powerful motions. The wind was cold against their skin, but his arms were very warm around her.

She grinned, watching the city pass below them, the lights illuminating her face. "Tell me about your encounter with the bug this afternoon," she asked above the wind. "Obviously, you got the better of him.." He had, after all, come home with his prizes.

"Heh," he said, something of an evil grin on his face. "He gave me quite a fight, I'll tell you that. A wonderful fight. I managed to knock him out eventually, and give him the slip. He very nearly destroyed that microsurgery rig I'd found," he added, raising his eyebrows.

"Grr," she growled, baring her teeth. "I would have had to thrash him myself." She leaned back in his grip, tracing the edge of his black eye with a finger. "You enjoy this far too much, you know. You get to have all the fun."

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. "Oh so?" he chuckled. "Perhaps you'd like me to build you a set of actuators... you could call yourself Lady Octopus."

She laughed. "I remember wearing yours. While I won't deny there's an exhilaration to it, I bet I looked ridiculous. I wouldn't have to fight Spider-Man. He'd take one look at me and fall over laughing."

"Truth be told, you did, actually. Only because they were so big compared to you. I could always build much smaller ones." His face took on a sort of faraway expression. "After all, it's not as though it hasn't been done before. But at least this time it would be done with my knowledge."

"That's right, I'd forgotten about Dr. Trainer," she said. She made a considering noise in her throat. "I can't say that I haven't wished for a set of my own."

"Oh?" came the reply, an odd, rakish smile on his lips. "Why is that, I wonder? Why would you want a set of arms like these?"

"Well, they have their uses," she said, smiling sensually and kissing him. "But aside from the obvious, they're a massive improvement over a microsurgery set-up. Finer control, stronger, steadier, with such _delicate _control." She looked at his actuators, the idea taking firm root in her mind. "We could design a set specifically for use on the project, with all of the tools I'd need."

"If you would like that," he said, his arms tightening and one hand making its way into her hair. "It shouldn't be difficult at all." He smiled at the slight tickling sensation of her hair against his neck.

"I think I would," she said, nodding. "It would certainly make the experiment easier." She smiled wider, tightening her arms around his neck. "And they're so useful. For all sorts of things."

"Mmmm," he said, his smile turning positively wolfish. "Is that so..." he kissed her softly, finding it difficult to banish that smile.

There was a beat before a voice said behind them, "I hate to interrupt your little date, here, Otto, but there's a little unfinished business between the two of us."

Octavius whirled to see Spider-man crouched on a chimney. "You!" he hissed.

"Aw, Otto, you almost sound like you're not happy to see me," the other replied irreverently.

"Oh, but I am," Octavius said, turning to face him and momentarily forgetting he still held Clair in his arms. "It'll give us an opportunity to continue our ... discussion."

"Bring it on, chubs," Spidey quipped. Octavius growled dangerously.

Clair clutched Otto tighter as he whirled, both their coats flaring with the gesture. She glanced down, judging how high they were. Five floors up.

Octavius stepped back, the actuators whipping toward his foe, his arms tightening around Clair. His eyes were on his opponent--he almost seemed to have forgotten she was there. The actuators struck at Spider-man's dodging and flipping form, then yanked them both to the right, dodging a web stream.

"Hey!" Clair yelped as the breath was driven from her lungs, but she clung to Otto with her arms and legs and held still. She hadn't seen Spider-Man since the day she'd aimed a gun at him and demanded he leave her and Otto alone, but she'd seen enough of the bruises that he left on Otto to respect him as an opponent. How well could Otto fight with her in his arms, encumbering him?

The actuators whipped wildly, slapping Spider-man out of the air when he leapt, and Octavius stepped back further, appearing to look for a quick way to escape. He made it to the edge of the roof, glancing down. He dodged a kick, blocked a punch with an actuator, and wrapped another around Spider-man's waist, throwing him. The nimble arachnid flipped through the air, webbed Octavius' head, and gave it a mighty yank, upsetting the other's balance. His momentum continued forward and his foot slammed against Octavius' head, snapping it back and rattling his senses. He lost his grip on Clair, stumbling and nearly falling off the building had not one actuator instinctively grabbed for purchase.

Clair screamed, losing her grip on him and tumbling free. She grabbed for his coat, the wall, the actuators, _anything_, but her hands closed only on empty air, whistling through her fingers. The wind stole her breath, cutting off her scream, and her hands came up to protect her head as the ground sped closer.

With a gasp, both turned to see her fall, actuators and web-lines shooting out in an attempt to catch her, slow her momentum, anything ... missing. Sticking to the opposite wall or taking chunks out of it, but missing. Octavius' blood ran cold as his actuators missed her by scant inches, stumbling forward, eyes wide behind his goggles.

She twisted nearly upright as she fell, and her leg hit the street first, then her arm, trying to protect her head. Pain exploded up her spine as both limbs bent in all the wrong directions with an absolutely horrible sound, and the sound shut out the world as her head bounced off the pavement, mercifully knocking her out.


	2. Tinker Toys

**Unreasonable Addiction III**

**Chapter 2: Tinker Toy**

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth

"No..." Octavius whispered, staring at her motionless body, his face pale. "_NOOO_!" he howled. He whirled to face his enemy, teeth bared, insanity in his eyes, almost creating a light behind the dark goggles. The actuators whipped forward again, faster and harder, the first three missing Spider-man as he dodged, the fourth catching him by his ankle. It slammed him against the roof below them, against the chimney and the duct-work, whipping him through the air. Another slam against the roof and then Octavius drew his enemy closer, within reach of his normal arms. His breath whistled, his heart thundered. The world had shrunk to just himself and his enemy. His hands reached out, grasping Spider-man's throat, and squeezed. The other kicked and struggled, webbed Octavius' head again, yanking on it and smacking his head against the wall. His grip slipped and Spider-man wriggled free. That only served to enrage Octavius further, and he caught his retreating enemy with two actuators. Bones broke as he again slammed the other against the roof.

The world returned unpleasantly soon as Clair's eyes flickered open, staring up, back at the roof where she had been so recently. Pain so intense that it cancelled itself out made her heart beat incredibly loud, drowning out all other sound, but she could see Otto up there, flinging Spider-Man against the brickwork. The hero looked more boneless than usual, she noted in that odd, floating part of her mind, the only part that was really functioning then.

With a roar, Octavius threw his enemy off the side of the building, and Spider-man bounced off the building opposite them, flopping to the ground. Octavius followed, his actuators carrying him down, and reached out, grabbing a fistful of Spider-man's suit. "This is where you say good-bye, Spider-man," he growled, and drove the other's head against the wall with a sickening crack.

Clair saw Otto come down, but then he went out of her sight, off to one side. Fixated in her pain, she tried to turn her head to see him. The movement pulled harshly at shattered bone and torn muscle in her arm, and she screamed. The sound came out as nothing more than a high groan.

Octavius froze at that sound and turned, seeing her eyes fluttering. He dropped his enemy and knelt next to her, his hands reaching out to touch her face lightly. They were streaked with blood, as were his face and coat and actuators. "Clair..." he whispered. "Can you hear me...?"

"Hgnnn," she moaned again painfully, trying to pull her shattered arm against her chest. Her vision swam: there were two, three, no Ottos leaning over her. She closed her eyes against the light.

Looking back at Spider-man's unconscious form, Octavius returned his attention to her and carefully gathered her in his arms, holding her close. "I'll get you home," he said vaguely. One actuator picked up Spider-man as an afterthought, and all three of them scaled the wall, heading back to Octavius' home. Clair passed out once more, and knew nothing of the trip.

* * *

The door to the lab was flung open and Octavius came through it, still carrying Clair in his arms, Spider-man hanging by one actuator. He dropped Spider-man on the floor, laying Clair carefully on the table. He ran his hands along her limbs, searching for broken bones.

She moaned, trying to pull away from his hands. "Ngh," she said, half-aware. "S'broke."

"Yes, and I'm trying to fix that," he said, probing at her left shoulder. "Hnnn... "

"Aah," she protested, the pain waking her up. "That hurts." She swallowed and shut her eyes again. "What happened?"

"Not much left to describe... I thought you were dead..." His hands continued to explore the damage to her arm, then moving to the side to feel her ribs. He winced infinitesimally as they shifted under his fingers.

"No...," she said through gritted teeth as tears sprang to her eyes. It took effort not to move. "Dead wouldn't hurt this -" She broke off, gasping. "There's a painkiller... in the meds cabinet. Give me all of it, please..."

One actuator snaked to the cabinet in question, and grabbed random bottles and vials, bringing them back and searching through them. He held one up that read, "Morphine," and figured that would work, searching for a syringe.

"Please..." she hissed again. She could feel consciousness slipping away again. "You've got to set it. I think I have stuff for that…somewhere in here. Plaster and splint..."

"One thing at a time..." he grated, still trying to find a vein. Finding it with the help of a tourniquet, he hastily injected the morphine, actuators searching for the splints and bandages.

She relaxed slowly, sighing as the morphine spread out from the injection site like a soft blanket between her and the pain. She could still feel it, but it didn't seem to matter to her anymore. Floating, she reached up with her good hand to touch his face. "I'll be alright."

"Let's hope so," he grunted, actuators bracing against the table as he pulled her shoulder into a better position, resetting the joint.

That hurt a little, but not much through the morphine. Her breath caught, then eased again. "Where'd the bug go?" she asked, trying to keep herself awake.

Octavius looked behind him, seeing that Spider-man was still unconscious on the floor. "I brought him with us," he said, baring his teeth as he strapped the splint to her arm. "Perhaps he can be your first test subject..."

"Hnn," she snerked, smiling up at the ceiling. "Tempting. See what it does to him." She stopped, and frowned. "I can't feel my left leg, below the knee. It's still there, right?"

"Yes," he said, reaching down to grasp her leg, hand moving to her hip, feeling the joint. "It's still here." He pulled it upward, hearing the loud pop that resulted as the joint was reset. An actuator reached for another bandage.

"Oh," she said blearily, a little startled. "Now I feel it. That's not good..."

"Do you need more painkiller? I think you have another vial of morphine here," he said distractedly, actuators bandaging her leg while he searched for another vial.

"Nnnyes..." she said on an indrawn breath. "Just a little more. I don't want to fall asleep. Concussion, must be."

He pulled the cap from the syringe with his teeth and poked it into the vial as his actuators continued wrapping her leg. Reaching for her arm again, he brought the syringe to her vein, squinting at it. She noticed, absurdly, that his tongue poked out through the corner of his mouth as he carefully injected another smaller measure of morphine. He tossed the syringe aside and went back to her leg, grasping the thigh and calf and bending them, popping the knee back into place as well. The actuators continued splinting and bandaging, almost moving of their own accord.

He turned his attention to her head, looking for the injury. A dark bruise showed in her hair-line, but the only blood on her head had come from his hands. She giggled, buoyed up by the drug. "I don't break," she said, seemingly at random, repeating a memory that drifted to the surface.

"You don't?" he asked, examining her head and pressing lightly on various spots.

She didn't explain herself, merely blinked and tried to pull away when one point above her left eyebrow caused bright darkness to flash behind her eyes. "Don't do that..."

"What happened?" he asked, peering at her intently.

"Nggnn, lights... Think it's a fracture. Bind it, ice. Keep it from swelling." She closed her eyes, and opened them again when that made her dizzy.

A hurried journey to a freezer found one of those squishy ice gel packs, and he snagged more bandages on his way back. Returning to her side, he carefully wrapped the bandage around her head a few times before lightly pressing the ice to it. "Like this?"

"Mmhmm," Drifting again, she focused on his voice. "Talk to me, Otto. Keep talking to me. Keep me talking to you."

He blinked, for once not having anything to say. Words didn't come to him, then suddenly, he blithered, "Well, I'll certainly have to build those actuators for you now, won't I? I mean, if for no other reason than to give you something to defend yourself with..."

"Yes..." she agreed. "And I'll need the hands. Gonna take Spider-Man's brain apart and put it back together."

"See?" he said, leaning down and carefully kissing her cheek. "I told you you'd replace me soon enough. You've a vendetta against the arachnid too, I'll wager." he smiled.

"Hard not to," she pointed out, smiling. She turned her head as much as she could to look at herself. "Pest."

He chuckled at that. "You could say that." He picked up her hand, warming it in his.

"Feel like a tinker toy," she said, squeezing his hand weakly. "Am I all put back together yet?"

"More or less," he said, looking her over. Then he nodded. "Yes. You're put back together. How could you not be with me here?" He smiled in a manner he hoped was reassuring.

She smiled back. "About time you had a turn." She shifted experimentally, stopping when the broken hip protested too great a movement side-to-side.

He looked down at her. "You're not going to want to stay on this table," he said after a moment.

"Nn," she agreed. "It's cold. And I should probably have these breaks elevated." The morphine was making her light-headed. "Bed, I think... Where did you put Spider-Man?"

Octavius glanced behind him again. "On the floor," he replied offhandedly. He slipped his hands under her, lifting her carefully from the table, a look of intense concentration on his face.

She bit her lip and put her good arm around his neck. The movement hurt. But he had done a good job of putting her back together; there was no tell-tale sharpness of shifting bone. She could see Spider-Man now, sprawled on the floor behind Otto. "You really thrashed him, didn't you?"

He looked down at the blue and red form. "Yes, I did," he said quietly. "I thought you were dead."

"No," she murmured. "You're not going to be rid of me that easily."

"I'll bear that in mind," he replied dryly, flashing a smile at her and carrying her up to their room. The bedroom, while maybe slightly more well-kept now than in recent years, still bore the randomly-constructed nest that they used as a sleeping surface. Carefully, he placed her on it, then painstakingly arranged her broken limbs on pillows and mounds of blankets.

She sank back into the nest, leaning against her favorite pillow. "This doesn't change anything. I'm going ahead with the experiment as soon as I can. I still need subjects."

He stood, blinking down at her. "Of course," he said, turning and heading for the door. "I should have a set of arms constructed in a day or so." He looked back at her.

She reached out for him with her good arm. "You don't need to start yet," she said, not pleading but only just. "Stay with me for now, please."

A pause passed, and he blinked, then crossed to the bed again. "I suppose the arachnid can keep for now," he said, one actuator closing the door. He sat next to her, looking down at her, seeming almost at a loss for something to say. He cleared his throat. "Will you be able to sleep?"

"I shouldn't, yet," she said, yawning. "Concussion." She reached for his hand. "Hey, you'll finally get to unmask him."

"I suppose I will," he murmured. "Perfect opportunity for revenge, and all that. Discover his identity. Make him and his loved ones suffer. Yes." He smiled, a shadow of his usual evil smirk. Lying next to her, he sucked in a breath and sighed. "Later."

"He's locked in my lab," she said, frowning slightly. "If he breaks anything, I'll make sure he comes out of this with nothing but his wits intact."

"Are you sure you want to leave even that?" Octavius asked, that wolfish smile back on his face. He reached out and carefully brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

"It's not much of a revenge if he doesn't know what he's lost, is it?" She scowled faintly, thinking. "I wonder if his brain is wired the same way? I think I need a tissue sample first, so I can begin to predict results."

He appeared to find her growling consternation somewhat amusing. "I think I can safely say that my brain and his are markedly different."

"Of course they are," she said, distracted. "You're a genius, and he's a bug, a... What _is _he? His reflexes are far too fast to be simply human. Some sort of mutation in his cerebellum and brainstem, certainly. His motor cortex too, probably." Her fingers twitched, eager to get a sample under her microscope.

He chuckled and caught the twitching fingers of her good hand. "There would have to be some kind of increased response. So much that it almost seems precognitive at times," he mused.

She thought about that for a minute, eyes narrowed. "I'd want to test that," she said at last. "Hook him up to an Tesla machine and subject him to stimuli. See if he responds before it's applied. If it truly is precognitive, then I want to see what sort of neurological structure he has to do that. Get in there and take a look."

Still grinning that wolfish grin, he leaned forward and nuzzled against her while she spoke, then kissed her. "Mmmm," he murmured against her lips. "You're playing my song, so to speak." The fingers of one hand trailed along her neck.

Suddenly, it wasn't only the morphine that made her skin feel warm and alive. She kissed him back, her tongue teasingly light against his, and conveniently forgot that half her body was currently useless.

He put his hand on the bed on the opposite side of her, leaning even further forward and deepening the kiss. His hair brushed her cheeks and he closed his eyes, savoring the softness of her lips.

She wound her fingers into his hair behind his head, and reached for his hip with her other. The unexpected pain made her cry out against his mouth, her eyes flying open.

He jerked away, blinking, then calmed himself. "Ah," he said, looking at something else. "Yes. That."

She bit back tears as the pain faded beneath the morphine haze once more, going back to its former ignorable throb. Rage at the situation began to replace the peaceful floating feeling, along with a hot fury aimed at its cause. "I am going to _vivisect _him," she hissed when she could speak again.

"Yes," Octavius replied, fingers lightly stroking her face. "You will. When you've healed."

She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth in frustration and clenched her good hand. "I should have let you kill him the first time I met him." she said coldly.

"Heh," he said. "Seven years ago. Believe me, I would have, had I not been ill and _sans _actuators."

She opened her eyes, looking up at him. "Has it really only been seven years? I was such a _waif _back then, naive as you get." She chuckled. "I did the best I could to stop you from killing him because he was the _hero_."

"That's most peoples' misconception," he said, sitting up. "And a useful one at that, I suppose."

"Useful in what way?" she asked, tipping her head to one side. "I'd judge it annoying."

"It's useful for him," Octavius clarified. "And useful, I suppose, for everyone else who feels they need a hero in their lives for whatever reason. But, yes, terribly annoying for us." He reached out and carefully pried her one eye open, then the other, looking at them. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" she answered queryingly, blinking sleepily. "What?" Her left pupil, formerly dilated and fixed, had returned to almost its normal size, still a little enlarged from the morphine, matching the right and reacting to the light, shrinking slightly.

"Your pupils," he said contemplatively. "They've returned to normal. I believe you can probably sleep, now." He looked down at her again. "Unless, of course, you'd rather not," he said, an amused look on his face.

She smiled crookedly up at him, a trifle regretfully. "I don't think I have much choice in the matter, unless you want me falling asleep in the middle of something."

"Right now I doubt there's anything you could be doing that either of us could possibly regret your falling asleep during," he replied, standing. A beat passed and he reached down, pulling a blanket over her. "I'll return in a short while," he added, turning to the door.

"Mmkay," she slurred, closing her eyes and shifting to get as comfortable as she could. "I'm not going anywhere." She said that nearly every time he left her, but her tone was sleepily ironic tonight.

He paused at the door, watching her as she drifted off to sleep. _She's alive_, he reminded himself. _The arachnid, however...that remains to be seen, doesn't it?

* * *

_

Agent Martin looked up when she heard Hanover twitch open the day's newspaper. It had been a slow couple of weeks for New York's metahuman division of the FBI, and she was bored of paperwork. "Anything interesting today?"

"I'd say so," Hanover grumbled, putting the paper down on the desk and jabbing at the photo. "He's at it again."

She left her desk and came to stand at his, looking over his shoulder at the paper. "**OCK ROCKS LAB!**" shouted the Bugle's lurid headline above a blurry picture of "Dr. Octopus" grinning manically into a camera. "Oh. Him. What was he after?" she mused, scanning the article. "Wetware... microsurgury? That last one's a little out of his typical shopping list, isn't it?"

"Hmmm," Hanover grumbled, reaching into his desk drawer and retrieving a pair of scissors. He scanned the article, as well. "Not so sure what he'd want a microsurgery device for, but that wetware control array bugs me. It might have something to do with controlling those arms of his." He started to clip the article from the newspaper. "It might be used to give him even finer control over them, or make them faster."

Martin rolled her eyes as he clipped the article. "More material for your scrap book? Come on, Brian, admit it. You're obsessed with this guy."

"I'm obsessed with finding him," Hanover clarified. "I'm obsessed with returning Doctor Holmes to a normal life. I'm obsessed with getting his ass in prison. I am _not _obsessed with _him_. Don't make me out like some weird villain-worshiping social-outcast fanboy." He pulled the book from its shelf and opened it, finding the next blank page.

"No-one's heard from Dr. Holmes in a year," she said objectively, sitting on the edge of his desk. "And from witness accounts of her last sighting, she doesn't really want to be returned to a normal life." She hadn't been assigned to Metahuman Division back then, but she'd read the report when she was assigned Hanover as her new partner. "According to that second-hand message from Spider-Man, she seemed rather happy with Octavius. This isn't about her, this is about _him _outsmarting _you_. You're hardly the first agent he's done that to, you know, and I don't see any of them with scrapbooks."

"I can't imagine anyone could be happy with a monster like him," Hanover grated, slipping the bit of newspaper into the clear casing of the binder's sheet. "And he was lucky. He won't be so lucky when I find him again."

She blew her hair out of her face with an exasperated puff. "We're supposed to be wrapping up the last project, still. Are you going to go off hunting him again?"

"I might have to," Hanover replied, putting the book neatly back on the shelf, amongst the surroundings of his equally as painfully neat desk. "Until he's found, I'd have to at any time."

"Brian, we're not assigned to that case!" she protested. "Dr. Octavius is Miller and Morris's responsibility, you know that. You've been reprimanded for this before."

"Miller and Morris," Hanover enunciated, "haven't got the experience with him that I do! Have they negotiated a hostage situation with him? Have they researched his past the way I have? I've dug up dirt on that man they didn't even know _existed_. The best man for the job isn't always the one who's assigned to said job."

She ground her teeth. "Miller and Morris are assigned to that job precisely because they're not as close to the situation as you are. Upstairs knows how personally you take this. If you go after him again, without permission, they're going to stick you in a desk job and leave you there."

"And meanwhile," Hanover grated, "Octavius will continue doing what he does because those two don't have a snowball's chance in _Hell _of catching him!"

"They are perfectly capable agents," she pointed out, despite agreeing with him. Miller and Morris had been on Ock's trail for almost 5 years and had never come anywhere as near the man as Hanover had.

"Let 'em chase someone else, then," came the growled reply.

"Brian, we've been assigned to the Quentin Beck case for months now. We haven't managed to bring _him _in. Do you really think you can take Octavius?"

"Beck is such a flake he doesn't even _need _tracing," Hanover rolled his eyes.

"So he's not worth your time? Is that what you're saying?" she asked acidly.

"Yeah, maybe that IS what I'm saying!" Hanover replied angrily. "Good god, I'm reduced to chasing after a man with a _fishbowl _on his head who announces his presence to everyone in a three-mile radius with all those ... Las Vegas special effects?"

"And yet," she pointed out disapprovingly. "We missed him. _Again_. Because _you _went haring off across town on a supposed Doc Ock sighting! This is an unreasonable obsession, Brian. Give it up."

"He was there! I just got there too late after Spider-man, and lost sight of him!"

"Whether he was there or not isn't the question," she pressed, angry. "Your job was to take Quentin Beck into custody. Did you do that?"

"That's not the issue here!"

"Yes, it is!" she yelled at him, then tempered her voice when she saw that they were attracting attention from the hall. "Yes, it _is _the issue. This obsession with Octavius is interfering with you doing the job that you are assigned to do. It's hurting your career, Brian. You know you're overdue for promotion. Everyone knows it."

"Hmph. Promotion-granting around here is strictly arbitrary anyway--" he broke off as the phone rang, looking at it as though it had just spoken. He reached out and picked it up. "Hanover," he said, glaring at his partner.

Daring him to argue her, Martin picked up her own extension to listen in. "'Ey, it's Spike," said the seedy-sounding voice on the other end. "I gots news fa you, if ya wan' it."

"What's your news?" Hanover asked, retrieving a pen and paper from their painstakingly arranged homes.

"You still lookin' for that Doc Ock character?"

"Of course I'm still looking for him," Hanover replied, raising an eyebrow at Martin. "What've you got?"

"My mate Torrence saw 'im, 'bout four hours ago. Right here by my haunt. Over by the fact'ries, you know where I mean? He had a kid with him."

"A kid?" Hanover echoed. "What for? Where was he taking him?"

"Mighta been a her," Spike mused slowly. "Tor wasn't seein' too straight, if ya know what I mean. Looked eleven, twelve, real little. Beats us where he was takin' 'im. He was just going from roof to roof on those arm things o' his, holding the kid. And the kid wasn't strugglin' neither. But then Spider-Man showed up."

_Eleven... twelve -year -old... not resisting--why? _Hanover wrote. "What happened when Spider-man showed up?" he asked, making a note of that, too. _Spider-man again_...

"Well, he just laid right into Ock. Webbed 'is head an' almost knocked 'im off the roof, and he dropped the kid."

Hanover stopped writing at this, his mouth open slightly. "And then what happened?" he asked, almost dreading to know the answer. He looked up at Martin with an expression that said, _See_!

Martin would have rolled her eyes at Hanover if she hadn't been listening so intently. Spike, whoever he was, seemed to be enjoying the attention, pitching his voice theatrically. "Well, the kid falls, right? And Tor figured he was dead, 'cuz it was at least five stories. It's the Paxton building, the one with the soup kitchen round back, right? Ock screams bloody murder and just tears Spidey a _new _one, flingin' him all over the place, then he throws _him _off the roof too! An' 'e knocks Spidey out, looks like he's about to tear 'is throat out when the kid moves. He's still alive, but he's real busted up. Leg shouldn't bend that way, right?" Spike took a breath. "And Ock picks 'em both up, Spidey and the kid, and heads back uptown, and that's the last Tor saw."

"Uptown?" Hanover echoed. He turned to look at the map of the city on the wall behind him, easily finding said Paxton building. "Uptown..." he repeated. "Did Torrence see anything else?"

"Yeah. When the kid moved, Ock was at his side _fast_. Like he cared or somet'in'" Spike sounded skeptical, Martin thought. "But that's it. Like I said Tor wasn't seein' too straight. Still isn't." There was a soft thud of shoe on flesh and a drunken moan. "Dumb sot..."

Hanover began to suspect. "Did he say if this ... kid was maybe thin?" he asked.

A moment of conferral, just inaudible over the phone line. "Yeah. Like a stick-drawin', he says. You know who it is?"

"That wasn't any kid, that was Holmes," Hanover growled. He sighed, a long frustrated sound. "Uptown from the Paxton building maybe narrows things down a little. Thanks." He hung up after that, dropping the phone on its cradle and looking at the map again.

"Who the hell survives a five-story fall?" Martin burst out. "She's got to be pretty badly hurt. Should we keep an eye on the hospitals? If he cares about her, he'll probably bring her into an ER somewhere."

Hanover nodded. "All the ERs downtown. We need to troll for eyewitnesses, too, anyone who might have seen him on the rooftops and remembered where he went. Maybe someone who follows Spider-man..." He thought for a minute. "Maybe that Parker kid."

She sighed, knowing that he wouldn't be deterred now. The paperwork would wait for them, at least, instead of escaping back into the underworld of the city. "Let's get going, then. He's got four hours head start on us." She turned to the bulletin board over his desk, reading Parker's phone number off the post-it there. The kid was practically a departmental resource. "You want to call him, or should I?"

"You call him," Hanover replied, searching his desk. "I have things to get together. Faster this way."

Martin nodded and picked her phone back up, dialing the number labeled "Parker - home," and putting the phone to her ear, watching Hanover while it rang.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up, and a loud, brash voice she could have sworn was New Zealander answered. "'Allo? 'Onest Ed's Mortu'ry, you kack 'em, we pack 'em!"

"Er, hello." Martin said tentatively. "This is Agent Martin, FBI, and I'm calling for Peter Parker. Is he there? Who's this?"

"Nope, and Big John!" the other replied cheerfully. "And wot're you doin' later to-day?" he asked, dropping his voice into what he thought was a suave purr but really hadn't changed much at all beyond a campy lowering of pitch.

"Do you know where I could reach Mr. Parker?" she asked, her voice gone frigid.

"At four in the mornin'? Y'might wanna try that newspaper 'e works at. Orrrrr 'is girlfriend's... or 'is aunt's or..." he trailed off, apparently trying to think, as he repeated these options to himself. "Girlfriend... aunt...paper..."

"Do you have these phone numbers?" she asked impatiently. The thinking sounded like hard work.

"Errrr... half a tick..." The sound of rummaging could be heard. More rummaging. "OI! ANY OF YOU GOT PARK-O'S NUMBERS!" Martin closed her eyes and prayed for patience. She hated dealing with civilians.

More sounds, another voice. "Roight, phone book, sorry," Big John boomed. Flipping. "Parker...Parker...Parker...Too many Parkers... 'Ere it is, 555-5263, it's 'is aunt, but I don't think she's gonna be up this late... oh! 'Is girlfriend... " he searched some more... "Dun think we've got it, sorry..."

"Do you have her name?" Patience, patience, she repeated silently to herself, wrapping the phone cord around a pencil until the utensil snapped. "We can look it up."

"Mary Jane... errr... OI! WOT'S 'IS SHEILA'S NAME?" A pause. "Watson. Mary Jane Watson."

The name twigged something in her memory, but she couldn't remember what. "Thank you. And I know the paper. Sorry for disturbing you this early... John. Thank you for your help."

"No problem!" Came the cheery, if loud answer. "Glad to 'elp! Bye, now!"

Relieved, she hung up, already dialing the Bugle. "He's not there," she told Hanover. "I've got a few more numbers to try, though."

"Who were you talking to?" Hanover asked, riffling through files. "I could hear him all the way over here."

"One of Parker's house-mates," she said, listening to the phone ring at the Bugle. "'Big John.' Glad I don't live with him; I'd have to cite him for noise pollution. Come on, pick up."

"Daily Bugle, Robertson," A voice said after a few more rings.

"Ah, hello. This is Agent Martin, FBI. I'm looking for Peter Parker. Is he there, by any chance?"

"Parker?" the voice responded. "He's never here this late. He in some kind of trouble?"

"No, nothing like that." She put on her "good cop" voice. "We just have a few questions for him. If you see him, could you please have him call us?" She gave him her cell phone number, checking that he wrote it down.

"Okay," Robertson said a little dubiously. "This have anything to do with Spider-man?" he asked after a beat.

"I'm not at liberty to say," she said, going by protocol. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Robertson. Have a nice day." She hung up again, lifting an eyebrow. "Strike two. Where in the world is he, at four in the morning?"

"Beats me," Hanover replied. "I'd say, 'out chasing Spider-man,' but we'd have a hell of a time finding him if he was."

She nodded, dialing the aunt, getting a similar, but more worried response, and then looking up the girlfriend, Miss Watson. "If you hear from him," she said again, after getting the fourth negative, "Could you please ask him to give us a call immediately?"

"Oh, uh, sure," Watson said. "Bye..."

Hanover looked at Martin as she hung up. "Nothing on Parker?" He pulled his coat off the hat-stand by the door.

"Nothing." She said, dropping the phone harshly. It landed half in the cradle, and she didn't care. "Complete strike out. So we go anyway?"

"We go anyway," came the decisive response. "Who knows, we might find the kid, tailing Spider-man." He opened the door and walked out through it.

She fixed the phone, grabbed her coat, and followed him. As they took the elevator down to the parking garage, she sighed heavily. "What is it about New York? This city attracts ninety nine percent of the freaks and weirdos in the entire world, I swear."

"Bigger population means more weirdos per capita," came the response.

"I've got to move outta here," she said reflectively, getting off in the parking garage. Taking one of the agency's black sedans, they headed east to the Paxton building. The neighborhood around it was more or less abandoned, which didn't speak well for finding additional witnesses. She turned up her collar against the chill pre-dawn wind as they scouted around the building with flashlights, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Walking in the alley between the Paxton Building and its neighbor, Hanover stopped near a large Dumpster. "Hey, over here," he said, kneeling.

She jogged over, adding her flashlight to his on the site. The blood looked black against the cement, and was mostly dried. Something else caught her eye, farther down the alley. "There's more over there."

Hanover was already scraping bits of the dried blood into a tiny evidence bag. He sealed and pocketed it, looking where she shone her light and then shining his up the building. "It goes up the building," he said, looking up at the roof.

She looked at it. "That's a lot of blood. If it's all Dr. Holmes', do you think she lived long enough to reach an ER?"

"Could be that it's not," Hanover replied. "The witness said Octavius laid into Spider-man pretty badly, some of this could be his." He turned and approached the other dried puddle, scraping some of that into another tiny bag, sealing it. "We'll find out soon enough," he added, rising and stuffing the second bag into a pocket. He looked up at the roof again.

"You want to see if we can go up there?" she asked, following his gaze. "The soup kitchen's open, they might have the keys."

"Easier way," Hanover replied, indicating an outside ladder, a series of bent metal bars inserted into the brickwork. Pocketing his flashlight, he started up said ladder.

She followed him up reluctantly, trying not to look down. She wasn't afraid of heights, but five stories was an uncomfortable distance between you and the ground, so it was with relief that she reached the roof. She looked back down the way they had come. "She survived that?"

"Presumably," came Hanover's reply, his flashlight following the trail of blood drops across the roof. He peered into the distance. "There aren't any hospitals very close in this direction. He might have taken her back to his hideout."

"So. Are you planning to follow the trail and see how far it gets us?" she said, indicating the blood. "Because I am not climbing up and down buildings all night on someone else's case." She scowled at him, daring him to push her any farther.

Hanover favored her with a withering stare before turning and walking back to the ladder. "Some other way, then," he grumbled, climbing back down to street-level. She could still hear him grumbling even after he disappeared from view.

She rolled her neck, sighing deeply and looking out uptown before swinging onto the ladder herself. Maybe this obsession was contagious.


	3. New Toys

**Unreasonable Addiction III  
**

**Chapter 3: New Toys**

**By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth.

* * *

**

Octavius stopped in the doorway to the bedroom, looking down at Clair, who was, once again, sound asleep. Bruises covered a great deal of what little skin lay exposed, and her bandaged arms and legs still looked a little painful, the fingers that poked out of the cast and bandages, red. Her face, however bruised, looked peaceful at least. He crossed the room and knelt next to her, touching her cheek. "Clair," he said quietly. "Wake up."

Her eyes shifted under their lids, and then opened with the suddenness of someone released from a dream. She looked around, disoriented, then looked at Otto. "Hn," she said by way of greeting. "I fell asleep again."

"Yes," he said. "And it's time to wake up, now. Besides, I have something here for you that I daresay you're going to want to wake up for."

She blinked, rubbing her face with her free hand. "Are they ready?" she asked excitedly, trying to push herself up, wincing. "You're done already?"

He almost laughed at that eagerness, but restrained himself to a smirk as one actuator lifted something silvery into her view. From a gray harness similar to his, yet smaller, hung four slender, shining tentacles, complex claw-like heads still and closed.

Smiling hugely, she reached out to run her hand along one, gazing at them reverently. "Incredible," she breathed.

The metal seemed to vibrate under her touch, almost as though it were alive. Octavius cleared his throat, directing her attention back to him. "Would you...want to try them now?" he asked.

"Of course," she said eagerly. "I'm tired of sitting here useless." She glanced at him, then back at them.

Carefully, he unbuttoned the shirt of his that she'd borrowed and slipped it off of her, then bringing the smaller set of actuators around behind her, securing the harness very carefully around her torso. "I hope you're prepared for it this time," he murmured, a slight smirk on his features.

"It's not a sensation I'd ever forget," she assured him, forcing her back and shoulders to relax while bracing herself. "I think I'm ready."

He nodded, and fastened the last clasp. She felt the tingling against her back, and then the needles, hair-fine, plunged through her skin and into her spinal cord with that same sharp puncturing sound.

She took in a sharp breath, stiffening and going pale, but didn't make a sound. She closed her eyes and held very still until her nerves accepted the intrusion, shaking only slightly, then opened them again. She smiled as her brain reported new sensations, felt the actuators begin to move. They were lighter than Otto's had been, considerably so. She brought all four of them around in front of her, opening the claws and examining them.

At first glance, the claws seemed very similar to Octavius', three-pronged pincers that could turn in almost any direction, but at a closer look, the end joints of the claws were able to extend tiny manipulating waldoes and needles.

She exclaimed softly over the tools, delighted by the potential. "Otto, these are amazing! How did you-" She looked up at him, noticing now the signs of fatigue in his face. "You haven't slept this whole time, have you? How long has it been?"

"Hm, three days," he said offhandedly. "D'you see this receptacle here?" he said, pointing out a circular depression in the claw join on the top right actuator. "You can place a vial in it for--" here he yawned cavernously, eyebrows raising before he continued. "For injection."

"Mm," she said, examining the detail. Then she retracted all the fine tools and planted three of the arms on the floor next to the nest, lifting herself up. Her cast leg stuck out oddly, but she didn't care. She beamed at Otto and stepped over to him, close enough that she could embrace him with her good arm and the free actuator. "Thank you," she murmured, pressing her forehead to his.

He smiled a brief, rather absent smile. "It's no problem," he said. One arm curled carefully around her. "Mmmn. Now Spider-man is secured in your lab on the-the--" he yawned again. "examination table... I don't think he's going anywhere, but I want to make sure that--" another yawn. "He won't try anything," he mumbled.

She cupped his cheek in her hand and kissed him softly. "You're asleep on your feet. Sleep now. I'll save the fireworks for when you're awake."

"Nonsense," he mumbled. "Just stopped moving is all. I'll wake up if I... find something..." he trailed off and blinked heavily. "What was I saying?" He shuffled past her and fell forward onto the nest with a flump. "Maybe just a short nap..." he mumbled.

She smiled down at him, and one actuator reached out to pull a blanket up over his shoulders, tucking him in. She watched him until she was sure he was asleep, and then she left the room, the actuators carrying her down the hall as quietly as she could manage. Control of them came easier than it had the first time, whether because of improvements or her body's memory of how such things were done. Her broken arm ached, distracting her, and she went down the set of stairs into the lab, where she could find something to bind it against her chest and support the shoulder.

A sound caused Spider-man to force his eyes open, and the slight iridescence over his vision told him he still wore his mask. Good. The sound grew louder and it resolved itself into the familiar clanking of actuators on a hard surface. Ock again. Time had become indistinct since he woke up in that lab, strung up on this table and occasionally poked at by Ock. Funny thing was, it seemed Ock was trying to keep him alive for some reason. He wished he knew what. He pushed his eyes open further and realized, as the source of the sound clanked into view, that that wasn't Ock. Too small. This didn't make any sense at all. Either Ock had shrunk, or ... "huh?" he mumbled, his voice scratching like stone grinding together.

That's right. In the excitement about the actuators, Clair had only half heard Otto say that the bug was still in here. And he was awake, apparently. Holding her bad arm to her side with her good, she stepped over to the table and stood over him, her face blank. "Hello, Spider-Man," she said conversationally, one actuator going over to a cabinet to find something that would work for a sling and binding.

"Heh," came the reply. "Imitation's th' sincerest form of flattery?" he mumbled thickly. He should have been in more pain than this, but strangely he wasn't. Drugs, he realized. He'd been drugged. And that doctor whatserface--Holmes--looked downright creepy with tentacles.

"In this case, necessity," she said, smiling faintly as the actuator found a length of cloth somewhere and folded it into a sling. "I can't exactly use my own two hands right now, you see." Carefully, she co-operated with the arms to set her arm into the sling, then bound it against her side to finish immobilizing the shoulder. "Falling from rooftops will do that to a person."

"Uh, yeah," Spider-man blithered. "I ... uh ... tried to stop that from, y'know, happening..."

"You didn't," she pointed out reasonably. "And it was rather your fault in the first place. Do you commonly attack the villain when he's holding a civilian fifty feet up? No wonder the Bugle calls you a menace."

"Well, I was kinda banking on him putting you _down_, first," Spider-man replied a little sourly, starting to wake up a little further.

"When? While you were webbing him, or while you were trying to kick him in the head?" She glared at him, not noticing that she was taking on yet another of Otto's traits; she was holding herself perfectly still, while the actuators not supporting her weight wove sinuously behind her. "If it weren't for these, you would have delayed the experiment, and that would have been truly unforgivable."

"Uhm..." Spider-man floundered.

"What, no _bon mots_? You don't seem your usual witty self, Spider-Man," she remarked, moving away from him to check on the samples that she had left in the incubator days ago. They were ruined, of course, but she pulled them out anyway, taking slides to see what the overgrowth had done to the virus. Putting them under her small electron microscope, stolen months ago from the university, she made a pleased noise at what she saw. "Looks like everything is almost ready. The viral forms work with the serum, and are easily modified for a specific effect."

"What serum? What virus? Did somebody check 'test subject' on my driver's licence without telling me?" Spider-man queried, pulling at the restraints. His fingers twitched inward, but he found his web-shooters had been removed. Not good.

"Apparently," she said, amused. "Relax. I'm not going to do anything until Otto wakes up. And then I have a few tests I want to run."

"Otto? You two're on a first name basis now?" Spider-man asked incredulously. He twisted his wrists in the restraints, but the pain in his arms put a stop to that rather quickly.

"Don't do that, you have some broken bones," she said, coming back over to him. "I'm afraid that when Otto thought that you'd killed me, he got a little... violent. And I haven't a clue what he's been doing to you over the past three days. You do look to be in somewhat better shape than the last time I saw you, however."

"Yeah, your boyfriend's been taking reeeeeal good care of me," Spider-man answered, a little bitterly. Things were only getting worse, and he didn't like the progression they were taking.

"It's your own fault, you know," she pointed out, taking some notes before setting the slides aside. "If you weren't an interfering pest, we wouldn't be bothering with you. Well, maybe. I am curious about how your head works. Otto and I were discussing your rather preternatural reflexes."

"'Interfering pest?'" he echoed. "Hey, I dunno what Ock's been telling you, but I'm just doing my job keeping people like him off the streets!"

"Oh, I know," she said, checking a reading on the microscope and jotting it down. "I used to root for you. Saved your life once, though I don't expect you to remember that. But priorities change, people adapt to new lives. As you will have to do, I suspect."

He really didn't like the sound of that. "Why, what're you gonna do?" he asked suspiciously.

"Now, that depends on what the initial tests tell me," she said, looking at him. "But I promise, even if something goes wrong, you'll be remembered for your contributions to science. And your fashion sense." She quirked an eyebrow as the actuators lowered her into a chair, pushing her towards a desk. "Now, I have work to do. An experiment to design. So please, make yourself comfortable and entertain yourself for a while."

"Oh yeah. I can count the bricks in the wall," Spider-man grumped. "Contemplate my existence."

"That might not be a bad idea," she remarked absently, checking her notes. "Do it while you can."

"I am so not liking the sound of this..."

"I don't blame you," she said, one actuator reaching out to collect a variety of vials from around the microscope, bringing them to her. She choose two, and it put the rest back. "Which sense would you miss the least?"

"I haveta pick?" Spider-man replied incredulously. "I think I'd miss all of 'em, y'know?"

"I guess you're kinda new at this," Spider-man said after a moment of pulling on the bindings. "But the bad guy usually reveals his plan instead of just dropping ominous hints..."

"Hmm?" she said, looking up from her notes. She smiled, highly amused. "Oh right. If I'm going to play the part, better do it right. Very well, then." The actuators lifted her again, bringing her to loom over him. She enjoyed the experience. At five feet tall, she didn't often get the chance to loom over anyone. "The first thing we're going to do, obviously, is unmask you. Otto gets the honors, of course. And then I get to satisfy my curiosity about your neurological make-up. Are your reflexes truly precognitive?" she asked, her eyes intent behind the glasses. She blinked and looked up, gazing at nothing for a moment. "I wonder if Otto could get me an MRI machine? That would be considerably easier on both of us."

"Ehhh... eh heh..." Spider-man replied, mind reeling. "It'd be a bit much to carry around, doncha think?" He couldn't believe it. Here he was on a table in the laboratory of Doctor Octopus, waiting to be dissected. It hadn't exactly been on his list of things to do when he woke up that morning.

...well, three mornings ago, really.

"They make portable ones now," she supplied. "And you would most certainly prefer it to the alternative." One of the actuators came to hover over his face, slowly extending a small scalpel.

"Uh, yeah, I would," he gulped. "I kinda l..like my skull where it's at, thanks."

"Hmm," she said noncommitally, withdrawing the claw. "And after that, if you are still sufficiently un_impaired_, you may help me complete the testing on my neuroregenesis serum and some of its variations."

"Sounds like a real blast and a half," came the acerbic reply.

"Well, I think so," she said, her grin widening incrementally. "But it's a science-geek thing. I won't blame you for being bored."

"I think it would be more of a 'being a test subject versus NOT being a test subject' thing, but whaddo I know, I'm only the test subject," he pointed out.

"Now you get it," she said approvingly, and turned back to the notes on the desk. "The real fun starts when I get the rest of my subjects. I can't use you as a control, obviously. Too many unexplained differences. But any variation of effect will be educational."

"Wow, remember me in my drooling vegetable-ness when you snag the Nobel Prize for this groundbreaking research," he grumbled darkly.

"I told you I would, didn't I?" She checked figures and watched as the actuators mixed minute quantities from the vials that she had selected earlier. "Hmm. I should test the Brocha variation if that's what we're going to use on Jameson..."

Spider-man was wide awake by this time and, in fact, the painkillers were starting to wear off, pushing him even further into a sharp, knifes-edge lucidity. "Broca... that's your plan? You leave Jameson aphasic?" he stopped, thinking for a beat. "Actually, that wouldn't be half-bad...splj... " his hero sensibilities took over at that moment, and rather vigorously at that. "You can't just go around scrambling people's brains!"

"Rude of me, I know, but I intend to. Start with Jameson, and if that doesn't attract the type of attention where I want it, I'll go from there. But I'm not going to risk such an _upstanding _-" The word was a good-natured snarl "- member of society with an untested process."

"What kind of attention do you want?" Spider-man asked, looking at her through the corner of his eye. Maybe he'd hit on something here.

"I don't want the attention. It's Oscorp that will be getting the credit for this. Only fitting, since they seem to want the credit for all of my work." Her voice had gone quiet and hard. "I could have finished this years ago, if it weren't for them."

_Oh ho. Here's the meat of the issue. _ "You plan to infect people with a brain virus and then blame Oscorp because they stole your work? No wonder you and Ock get along so well."

"Osborn stole _years _of my life from me," she growled. "Six years _wasted_. He deserves to be ruined."

"What exactly did he do?" Spider- man queried carefully.

"He should have kept his nose out of my business," she snapped. "Otto was no threat to me, there was _no _reason for me to be ripped from my research and hidden on the other side of the country. But the FBI, of course, is always eager to assume the worst." A beat. "I'll admit, that very tendency has proven useful."

"Something Osborn used to his advantage," Spider-man mused. "Okay, I'll admit, that's really, really low, but really, aren't you gonna just be lowering yourself to his level doing this?" He really wished, now, that he remembered more of those psychology lectures he'd gone to.

"It's not possible for me to lower myself to his level. I have far too many limbs to be a _worm_." She chuckled, amused at herself now.

"Bad jokes must come standard with those things," Spider-man muttered. "Like a CD player in a car."

She rose her eyebrows, trying not to agree with him. Maybe it's the brain damage they inflict, she thought idly. Stimulates the humor response, perhaps? She would have to be careful about how much she used them. It wouldn't do to end up the way Otto had been when she first met him, but then again, the ZJ could just make it all better, couldn't it? She turned back to her work, splicing together the components for the drug-turned-biological weapon and ignored the bug.

"Silent treatment, huh?" he muttered. "Please yourself." A moment passed, but the hyperactive superhero was nowhere near a state conducive to silent contemplation or motionlessness. "So... uh... you and Otto, huh?"

She smiled at that, but didn't answer. Time passed, in which she cleared away a great deal of the preliminary work for the experiment and found her Tesla scanner under an avalanche of printouts in the back of the room. With the exception of Spider-man's chattering questions and the sounds of her actuators, the room was silent. Eventually, impatience got the best of her. She set down the clipboard that she'd been perusing and headed for the stairs.

"Had enough, huh?" Spider-man croaked, having worn his voice dry talking. "Got to ya, didn't I?" The pain had come back full force, now, and was starting to scramble his thoughts.

She looked back at him, then stepped back to his side, one actuator selecting a vial of morphine from a counter-top fridge and fitting it into the place designed for it. The needle extended from the actuator and she examined it, admiring Otto's handiwork.

"Nice setup," he grated. "Good and scary. Like everyone's doctor's office nightmare rolled into one..."

Rolling her eyes, she broke her silence. "Do you want a painkiller or not?"

He thought about it. The fuzziness was probably preferable to the pain. "Yeah," he said after a minute

"It's not my goal to cause any more pain than necessary," she said, making the injection into the crook of his arm.

"That's nice to hear, anyway..."

Not saying anything more, she retracted the syringe and ejected the vial, putting it away and then leaving the lab and its occupant behind, the actuators carrying her up the stairs and to their bedroom. Slipping inside, she lowered herself onto the nest next to Otto, just watching him sleep for a moment.

He hadn't moved from where he'd flopped on his stomach several hours earlier, actuators draped along the nest and the floor, one arm also draped over a mound of blanket, hand dangling. He snored ever so softly and slowly.

She leaned on her good hand, then leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth gently. "Otto," she said softy by his ear, one actuator brushing his hair back from his face. "It's time to wake up."

After a moment, he stirred, and his eyes flickered open. "Nnnnhhh," he said, looking up at her. "How long was I out?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Three hours or so," she supplied. "I've been in my lab. With him. He never shuts up, does he?"

"No, he doesn't," Octavius mumbled, sitting up and looking at her. "Is he still alive?"

"Still alive and still masked," she assured him. "I thought you'd want the privilege."

He smiled, leaning in and kissing her slowly. Finally pulling away, he murmured, "I admire your fortitude. And your patience."

"Why do you think I came and woke you up? Couldn't wait any longer with him prattling at me."

"Still, the fact that he's lived this long almost amazes me," Octavius murmured dryly, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

"I haven't started anything yet. Didn't want to deprive you of your chance." She kissed him again. "I didn't let him get to me. But I may have monologued at him a bit, given away more than I meant to. It's almost impossible _not _to respond to him."

"I daresay that's part of his plan," came the reply. He hauled himself, rather reluctantly, to his feet and looked for his coat, finally realizing it wasn't in the bedroom. He left the bedroom and continued looking for it.

She followed him out and down the hall. "He's not an idiot, no matter how much he may play one, so it is possible."

"I've known this for decades, actually," Octavius replied absently, locating his longcoat and shrugging it on, his actuators snaking out the back. He started buttoning it, looking sidelong at her.

"So," she said, slightly self-conscious. She spread the arms wide, curling the upper two over her shoulders as the lower two supported her weight. "Do I look less ridiculous this time?"

He smiled, pausing in the action of buttoning his coat, and looked her over. "Much less ridiculous, yes," he said, stepping closer. He trailed a finger over the length of one of her actuators. "Much better."

She looked up at him, a small smile tugging regretfully at her mouth. "I suppose I should thank the bug for providing the incentive for you to make them. Right after I beat him for making me need them. This is... frustrating." She gestured at her immobilized arm and leg. "To say the least." She pressed close to him, taking a deep breath against his chest. He smelled of leather, and was generating his usual warmth, enough to dispel the slight chill of the house. She was only wearing the actuators' harness and the soft flannel pants that she had woken up in.

He slipped his arms around her, breathing the scent of her hair--still smelled like green apples along with the scent of hair. His hands warmed the small of her back, fingers rubbing the skin, and he smiled, his lips curving against her ear before he nibbled it lightly.

She sighed, sliding her hand into his hair. "Love it when you do that," she murmured against his neck.

"Mmmmm," he rumbled, lips teasing her ear. "I'll have to remember that," he breathed. His teeth lightly teased her earlobe and he ran his tongue over it, sucked on it and returned his teeth to it, his lips still hot and wet against it as well, moving lazily as he nibbled. His eyes were closed and his arms still wrapped around her waist, bending her back just a little.

She closed her eyes, her breath hitching slightly as ribs twinged. She leaned back against the actuators to relieve them, and curled one up around him, sliding across his shoulders.

He smiled against her neck, then pressed his lips against it as one hand slid to her hip and the other made its way up the back of her neck and into her hair. His fingers slipped under the waistband of her pants, warm against her hip.

She tipped her head back, wrapping her good leg around his hip as the actuators held her up. Turning her head, she caught his lower lip in her teeth lightly, and released it to kiss him.

His lips met hers, moved against them, then engulfed them as he drew in a slow breath through his nose, hand slipping further down her hips and over her bottom, warming the skin, fingers pressing against it. If at all possible, his heat increased, and an actuator wrapped around her.

She shifted against him, rubbing against his hip while her hand crept back into his hair, holding his mouth against hers while she kissed him hungrily. Her eyes fell shut again, lashes dark against her cheek, and she hummed happily.

He responded with a soft, growling purr. He curled around her, the hand at her head slipping down her back.

Her back arched against his hand, brand-hot on her skin, but then she spasmed forward with a choking sound as something in her ribs shifted, grating slightly. Pushing him abruptly away with an actuator, she curled in on herself, breathing as shallowly as she could and making a small, keening sound.

There was a period of silence as he caught his breath and apparently his dignity as well. One hand ran though his hair, pushing it back, and he slowly fastened the buttons of his coat. "Will you ... be all right?" he asked after a moment, not looking at her.

Breathing hard, she straightened up, her eyes closed and face pale. She crawled her fingers across her ribs, checking. No lumps, no unexplained depressions. Good. "Yes," she said, opening her eyes. "I guess we, uh, can't..."

"Not now, anyway," he replied, buttoning his collar. Behind it, his hair slicked back, his face abruptly expressionless, she noticed he looked exactly as she'd seen him seven years ago. Exactly how he looked in the photos. And never how he looked around her. Until now.

Clair looked at him, catching her breath. It was Doc Ock standing there, not Otto. The cold, vengeful criminal, rather than the man she knew so well. She'd seen the difference before, knew it for what it was. And it did not bode well for the health of the man in their basement.

He glanced back at her, then his actuators lifted him from the floor, and they made their sinuous way down the stairs, carrying him smoothly and effortlessly. His hands were clasped behind his back until he reached the laboratory door, which he opened and disappeared behind. She followed him, slowly, down into the lab, holding her sore ribs. In the room, she stayed by the door, just watching. Octavius stood over Spider-Man until the other stirred.

"Nnhh. Well 'f it isn' Ock. Back to h'rang me a li'l more?" the other slurred, still floating on the morphine.

"On the contrary, insect--"

"'rachnid..."

This interruption caused Octavius to growl in his throat. He leaned in close to Spider-Man's head. "Your glib tongue can only get you out of so much trouble," he said, his voice like claws on velvet. "And it has lost its efficacy."

"G'ssid better take iddin f'r th'refund, huh?" Spider-man slurred, ignoring Octavius' threats. He'd been threatened and harangued and _talked at _enough over the last three days to last a lifetime.  
Octavius, however, continued, regardless. "You've been a thorn in my side for long enough, Spider-man. I shall enjoy watching you suffer as your neurons are stripped, one by one," he purred, leaning in very close now. "You knew I would eventually unmask you, didn't you? It was inevitable from the moment I brought you in here." One actuator claw slipped under the edge of Spider-man's mask. The other made no sound or attempt to move, breathing shallowly, watching his enemy. "Soon the world will know anyway. And I'll get the satisfaction denied me so long ago." He smiled a cold, evil smirk. "Say hello, Spider-Man." The actuator claw pulled the mask free.

Beneath it lay a shock of unruly brown hair over bruised yet nondescript features, dark brown eyebrows furrowed over half-open blue eyes. Stubble graced a fine but strong jaw. Despite the wear of three days of painful incarceration, there still lurked in his features something young and eager. His eyes narrowed to slits.

Curiosity drew Clair forward, and she narrowed her own eyes, then widened them. "I _know _him!" she exclaimed suddenly as memories resurfaced.

"Who is he?" Octavius asked, not taking his eyes off the man. His actuators swirled lazily around him, one placing the mask on a nearby counter top.

She chewed her lip a moment, trying to dredge up the name. "He used the university labs sometimes, doing research. Teaches at a high school downtown... Something with a P, Perkins, Patton, no, Parker! Peter Parker, I think."

The man winced and that was proof enough.

"Peter Parker..." Octavius mused. "The photographer who takes all the photographs of Spider-Man. Well, at least now we know how he manages to get such well-placed shots," he growled.

"That's right," she said. "And you were the photographer who came with that reporter from the Bugle to interview me after the first time I helped Otto. I thought you looked familiar then." She shook her head ruefully. "Absolutely the last person I would have believed."

"You'll see I'm full of surprises," Parker grated, forcing himself into lucidity, pulling against the restraints until his wrists ground against the metal and his injured arms screamed.

"Don't do that," Clair said, two actuators arching up to pin his shoulders down so he couldn't pull anymore, careful not to apply more pressure than necessary. "You'll do yourself more damage than you already have."

He grew still, his bloodshot gaze flicking between Octavius and Clair. For his part, Octavius stepped back somewhat, regarding his old enemy contemplatively. Parker. That name sounded terribly familiar. He grew still, silent, thinking. Clair watched them both. The hunt for Spider-Man had been such a driving part of Otto's life; what would he do now that it was over? Not retire, no. That wasn't in him. Time would tell, she supposed.

And Peter Parker. She'd barely met the older man, but this seemed so... out of character for him that she was having trouble grasping the reality of it. "I have to give you credit for your acting skills," she said, looking at him. "I thought you were the only person in the labs who was less coordinated than me."

"All part of the secret identity thing," he replied a little vaguely, "Did a good job up until now, I guess. Now Ock knows. Only thing that'd make it even better would be if he got on the phone and invited all his villain buddies in for the show."

"No, Otto works alone these days," she said, drifting over to the counter where her notes were still laid out. She looked over at him for confirmation and noticed that he appeared deep in thought. "Otto?"

"Hmm?" he said, distractedly. It was on the tip of his mind. Parker. Why did that name sound so familiar, and moreover, why did it bring up pleasant associations? his brow furrowed. He thought his memory had righted itself after that Zombie Virus dose. Granted, there were things everyone forgot, but still, this seemed too ... integral in his mind.

"Is there anything more you wanted with him before I start the tests? I'm even more curious now, to find out what turns someone from nerd into a superhero." She smiled, slightly sarcastic. Her ribs hurt too much to have much compassion for the subject, even she had known him once upon a time. "I may ... may," She repeated herself, losing her train of thought for a moment, then finding it. "I may need that MRI scanner. I know the ER downtown has a portable one."

"Mmmhm," Octavius said, barely paying attention. This memory problem was nagging him too much and Clair's words slipped past him until she snagged on the word "may." "May." It repeated in his mind as she said it three times in one sentence. May, may, may... May. It suddenly clicked and the vague image of an old lady, bright-eyed and smiling under a softly pulled bun of white hair suddenly appeared in his mind. May Parker. That was why the name sounded so familiar. And her nephew... Peter. "Heh," he said, and found himself laughing at this. "It really is a small world..."

Clair smiled to see Otto laugh, and it was Otto. Ock had gone again, back to whatever dark corner he occupied. For the moment, at least. "Oh?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, looking at nothing in particular. "May Parker, I finally remember. A lovely old lady I used to know a long time ago. She," here he chuckled quietly and indicated the trussed superhero. "Is this boy's aunt. A very small world, indeed."

"Good job you never succeeded in marrying her," Parker replied darkly.

Clair's eyebrows shot up and she looked to Otto for an explanation. "Now this is a story I want to hear."

Octavius blinked, brought up a little short in this sudden reference. "Marry? Oh, right, yes, I did try that, didn't I?"

"All to get your hands on the island she'd inherited that happened to have a nuclear reactor on it, wasn't it? You were real smooth, weren't'cha, Ock?"

Clair leaned back against the counter, watching Otto's consternation with amusement. She knew there had been women before her, but they'd never discussed them. "That's one word for it. I call it charismatic."

"Less commentary," Octavius grumbled, sounding almost offended. He took a breath. "I suppose, at its core, you would be right," he said to Parker. "It was my original intent. But _only _my original intent." His voice grew a little softer, but not by much. "Over time, I'd grown fond of her. She was the only person, at that time, who I could have considered a friend, after all. The only one who showed me kindness. I thoroughly expect you to refuse to believe me," he added when Parker took a breath to speak. "You did then, it seems. It would be inconsistent of you to do any differently now, after all."

There was a pause, and when Parker spoke, he said only, "I heard from MJ's aunt that Aunt May still has the ring you gave her. She was almost going to sell it on eBay, but decided not to. I can't imagine why."

"I suppose she could have garnered a decent sum for it," Octavius mused. Then he looked at Parker again and even behind the goggles it still seemed his gaze was hard. "Though I'd like to think, in a moment of arrogance, perhaps, that she kept it because she might still have a fond thought or two. She is perfectly capable of that, and more."

"It wouldn't be arrogance," Clair said, coming to stand by him and pitching her voice softly. "Anyone who gets inside your guard could tell that you're not as black as you've been painted."

Octavius looked down at her as though startled she'd say such a thing. He reached out a hand and ran it over her hair. "A rare sentiment, indeed," he said contemplatively, almost absently, his mind somewhere else.

Parker looked at them a little dubiously. "You two really ... really..." he seemed to search for the word.

She turned to look at Peter, her expression cool. "Is it that impossible to believe, Parker? We're both human, both reasonably intelligent people. I'd say the chances are far better than, say, the average mild-mannered science teacher willingly dressing up in spandex and fighting crime on the streets."

"It's not spandex, it's mega-mesh..." he muttered, ducking his head a little. Then he looked up again. "Wh--that's beside the point. I put on the mask as Spider-man because I feel I have to. What's your excuse for risking your life like every other woman Ock's had?"

She looked back at Otto, canting her head, considering, trying to put the thought into words. She was speaking to Peter, but her eyes never left Otto's. "Because he _is _my life. That's all there is to it. I made a choice, and I left behind everything that wasn't him. There's no question about risking my life, because without him, I wouldn't have one."

"Yeah, I'll bet Stunner said the same thing, huh?" Peter muttered darkly.

At that, Octavius went white, and perfectly still, save for an actuator that shot out and grabbed Parker's throat. "Never ... mention... her...again."

Clair turned to face Parker, not making a move to stop Otto. She knew the bug had crossed a line. She knew very little about Stunner, but one day, a few months ago, Otto had disappeared for the day and come home that night more melancholy than usual, ignoring her offer of dinner and spending the evening in his study with the lights out. That night, he had muttered that name in his sleep. She had sat awake for hours, just watching him, until he settled. They had never spoken about it. For Parker to bring her up, use her against him, was unforgivable.

"Gghhkk..." Parker rolled his eyes toward Clair, looking at her. "Sh'died... t'bring him...back..."

"Be QUIET!" Octavius suddenly roared, turning and striding to the table. "You know _NOTHING_ of this! And yet you dare to bring up the idea, you dare to speak of what you've no comprehension!" The claw tightened and Parker went purple, veins standing out in his forehead and his eyes rolling back. "I have killed for _less_!"

In the midst of this, Clair answered Peter's comment, though whether he heard her or not would be debatable. "I would, too."

Again, Octavius went still. His head turned to look at her, and his expression was unreadable. Almost as though disbelief and shock warred in his mind... and maybe something else. He stared, the actuator loosening a tiny bit in his preoccupation, allowing Parker to gasp. "What..." he whispered.

Clair stepped forward on the actuators to stand in front of Otto, inches away, her face turned up to his, watching him over the rims of her glasses. "If it were necessary to save your life, I would give mine," she said simply, a serious little smile on her lips. The tableau held a moment, and she sent one of her actuators over to peel his away from Parker's throat, holding his gaze all the while.

"Don't ... make those kinds ... of promises..." he managed, as though his throat were tightening up, choking him. He turned away.

"Don't ask me not to," she responded, reaching out to turn his face back to hers.

She could just see, behind his goggles, two round black shapes. His eyes were wide. "She's not .. dead," he said after a moment, his voice neutral.

Parker blinked at him. This was apparently news.

Clair held his gaze, kept her voice level. "What happened to her, Otto?"

His lips moved slightly, soundlessly. "I didn't see it. I wasn't... there. Stunner... wasn't real, you know. Not as most see it. Virtual reality projection. She gave her life-force after ... apparently ... _he_ escaped," A slight turn of his head toward Parker, "Thinking that she could fool the process. Stunner was ... obliterated. And Angelina--that was who she really was, you know, in a machine, wearing the form of Stunner--the energy created a feedback into the machine. Fried her neural pathways and left her in a coma. She's... still in that coma now. Waiting for someone to find out a way to wake her up. Because it never should have happened." He fell silent after that.

Clair's heart thumped unpleasantly when he described Stun- no, _Angelina's _condition. Neurological damage. All too easy to fix, for her. If Otto hadn't realized that yet, he would someday. She could hear the loss in his voice. She could give him back what he'd lost. If she said nothing, she would have the time until he realized that. And yet, "Otto," she found herself asking, her voice strange and broken in her ears. "How extensive is the neurological damage?"

"Vast." He looked away again. "All that is left is the barest of life-functions. They declared her brain-dead. And yet I --" he broke off. And it clicked. "Your virus," he said, looking at her again, realization making its way across his face. Stark, amazed realization. "Your virus could heal that damage."

She nodded, her face a careful and utter blank, walls erected behind her eyes. "Frank was brain-dead, too. I've done it before. I can do it again. I will, if you ask it of me."

He appeared to think this over. Options flickered through his mind. His eyebrows lifted, almost as though some kind of hope came to him. They dropped. He sighed. "It's been more than ten years," he said contemplatively. "We wouldn't even know until she woke up if her memory would be intact or not."

"You won't know unless we try," she pointed out, forcing a hopeful smile onto her face. It didn't reach her eyes. They had both forgotten that Spider-Man was there, that anything else was there.

Octavius frowned, looking into her eyes. "What are you hiding?" he asked after a moment.

"I'm not hiding anything," she said, blinking. "We can do this, bring her back."

"No, your eyes look different. There's a barrier there. What are you hiding, tell me!"

It wasn't going to happen. She couldn't tell him her fears, that with Angelina back, he would leave her, wouldn't _need _her anymore. So she smiled, and forced the distance from her eyes. They stung. "I'm not hiding anything," she repeated.

"You're lying," he said, sounding as though he had just come to a realization. "Do not _lie _to me!"

"What is there to be lying about?" she asked. "You know how the serum works. You know better than anyone else. You've seen what it can do. It can bring her back. It can't restore her memories if they've been destroyed, but it can bring her out of the coma. I know she was... is important to you, Otto." Control slipped, her voice shook slightly. Maybe he didn't hear it.

His gaze held her, searchingly, for several more moments. "You're afraid," he said. "I can hear it"

She didn't answer, but looked away, a muscle jumping at the corner of her jaw. A long moment passed before she spoke. "Yes."

"What are you afraid of?" he asked with the air of someone tired of chasing an answer.

"If she wakes up, what will you do?" she asked quietly, staring fixedly at the wall beside her.

He opened his mouth to reply and there was no reply. He had no idea. The past and the present offered their opportunities, but they could not be chosen amongst. Past or present. Angelina or Clair. Always _or_, never _and_. And he couldn't choose. "I don't ... know..." The realization made him uneasy. He didn't like not knowing things.

She didn't move. She wanted to go to him, have him embrace her and let his warmth chase away the chill that was stealing her strength and settling into her broken bones, but it would be emotional blackmail. She wouldn't stoop to that. "Let's bring her back. Any... decision that needs to be made... can be made after that."

"You're ... afraid I'll leave you," he said with that same tone of realization. As though it were the last thing he could have possibly expected.

Her hand opened, shut fitfully against her leg. She watched it intently, looking anywhere but him. "Yes," she said, a bare whisper of sound.

Parker watched this, his eyes flicking warily between Holmes and Ock. Back and forth his gaze went, watching her become quieter and smaller and more defeated looking, watching him become more lost and adrift and puzzled. It was the strangest thing he'd seen in a very long time. His eyes flicked back to Octavius.

For his part, Octavius stepped closer, ducking to look at her, then reaching out one hand to turn her head so that she looked at him. "Why ... would you think that?" he asked. It was an answer he needed terribly.

She fought to keep the stinging in her eyes from becoming tears. "You loved her," she said quietly. "It's obvious."

"Yes. I did. I still do. But that won't make me leave you. Not when I'd promised I would stay here, with you." Not exactly the tone of a reassuring lover, his words sounded more like the tone of someone who had something right in front of him and couldn't understand why the other person didn't believe it existed.

Her shoulders shook, just once, as she caught her breath. "Love is more important than a promise," she said painfully. She couldn't tell if her heart was still beating or not. Her chest felt like an ice cavern, hollow and cold.

His brows twitched together in confusion before relaxing. "I won't leave you," he said decisively, an air of determination to it. A beat. "I can't," he blurted.

"Why?" she asked, still not taking her eyes from his face. If he was saying this out of some misplaced sense of duty or debt... But Otto wouldn't do that, would he?

"Because I ... can't imagine life without you here..." he said, mystified, words tumbling out of the deepest parts of his mind before he even had a chance to catch them.

She crumbled, taking one stumbling step forward and wrapping her arm around him, all four actuators laying close to the ground behind her, out of sight and mind. Her head pressed against his chest as fine trembling wracked her, and her breath came in strange little gasps.

He put his arms around her carefully. "You're chilled," he observed after a moment.

She nodded faintly against his chest, trying not to cry. She was stronger than this! "You're what keeps me warm."

His hand slipped briefly over her hair, then rested on her forehead again. "Are you feeling unwell?"

That caught her, forced a surprised laugh from her. She tightened her hug on him for a moment, then let go, stepping back and composing herself. "No, Otto, I'm fine. I'm sorry for being such an emotional headcase."

He slipped his hand through her hair again. "Keep it together better in the future," he said, a smile tugging at his lips..

Clair's tentative smile widened at his jest. "I'll try," she answered in kind. Then her eyes tracked sideways to Spider-Man, who had, incredibly enough, remained silent through the whole thing. Maybe the joking had come away with the mask. "Should we get back to work, then?"

"Aw, and here I was kinda hoping all these revelations would prompt you to let me go," Parker said, pulling at the bindings again.

"I wouldn't be much of a scientist, then, would I?" Clair answered, though she didn't pull away from Otto's hand just yet.

"Sure you would," Parker replied, a hopeful look on his face. "You'd just be a good scientist instead of, y'know, an evil one."

Clair turned to look at him. "No, you're confusing scientist with person. I'd be a bad scientist, but a good _person _if I let you go. Fortunately, I'm neither of those."

Strangely, Octavius felt a small swell of pride in his chest at hearing her speaking to Parker like this. He slipped his fingers through her hair one last time, then stepped back, watching her.

"A good scientist," she elaborated, lifting herself on the actuators and stepping past Parker to the Tesla scanner in the corner, drawing it on its wheeled trolley to stand by his head. "Gathers all available data from any given source." She turned it on, fiddling with the knobs and straightening the leads for the small sensors, adjusting settings. One claw gripped Parker's head to hold him still while she placed the tiny sensors on his temples, his forehead, and other places around his skull. "This won't hurt," she said as she fixed the last one in place behind his ear.

Parker couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes in an attempt to see the Tesla scanner, moving his head back as much as the claw would permit. Even now, with his life on the line, his inner geek couldn't help but watch the machines.

She finished the calibrations, and the small bank of monitors came alive with wavering, green lines. Looking down at Peter, she saw his interest. "It separates the information it's receiving from your brain by where it's coming from," she explained, gesturing to various sets of lines. "Wernick's Area, brainstem, temporal lobe." She tapped one screen, where the line was more active than the others around it, spiking up and down. "Sensory cortex. I'd give you more morphine for that pain, but it would interfere with the test."

"Ehhh... yeah," he said, putting his head back where it was before to ease the sudden pain in his neck. "Can't mess up the test..."

Octavius stood nearby, leaning against a counter top, arms folded, watching the proceedings as his actuators snaked slowly and continuously around him, unconsciously by now.

Clair watched the rhythms for a moment, taking notes on a pad held by an actuator. Then she turned her back on Peter, arranging some vials on a tray.

A beat passed and suddenly Parker's spider-sense tingled as he watched her. His eyes narrowed and readouts spiked on the Tesla sensor. Octavius shifted, getting a better view of the machine, his interest only barely disguised by his still deliberately nonchalant posture and the inscrutable goggles.

One actuator shot out and smashed down next to his neck, close enough that a claw nicked the skin and with enough force to dent the metal table, puncturing it slightly. Clair turned around calmly, watching the machine. A button wound the scan back, replaying the spike. "Interesting. It is entirely precognitive. How do you do that?" Her tone was simple curiosity as she watched the waves settle back towards their former states. She looked up at Otto. "He can see your strike coming almost as soon as you form the intent, I think."

"An ability to see five seconds or so into the future," Octavius mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "That would explain a few things. Yes, Spider-man, tell us. How _do _you do it?"

"I dunno," came the glib, wide-eyed reply. "Dunno how I does it, I jez does it," he nattered.

The attempt at humor caused Octavius to scowl. "No use in asking him, then," He said. "Something to do with his peculiar arachnid-related abilities, perhaps? It is said, after all, that spiders are able to sense danger."

"Hmmm..." Clair watched the readings, tapping one finger against the side of her leg, thinking. Her hand shot out, indicating the groups of lines labeled 'cerebellum.'" These readings are odd. Almost as if there's interference. But there shouldn't be any other structures there to be interfering. I want to take a look in there."

"That doesn't sound good..." Parker gulped. Truth be told, it was getting harder and harder to keep up the glib patter these people knew him for.

Octavius came closer to the machine, peering at the readouts. "It almost looks as though... it's picking up a second set of unfamiliar signals. As of ... another brain. Barely-formed, but there." He looked at Parker. Parker blenched.

Clair considered it. "You're right," she said, looking back and forth between the screen and Parker. Her fingers twitched slightly and the upper left actuator extended a scalpel almost unconsciously, but then she withdrew it and shook her head. "It would be a waste to take him apart just to satisfy my curiosity. I can see it just as well in an MRI."

"Uh, gee, thanks, I think," Parker observed.

Octavius stepped back again, once more allowing her room. "This is true," he rumbled, gazing at the readouts.

She looked at him pointedly. "I don't _have _an MRI, Otto. The ER downtown, on the other hand, _does_." She was a little surprised. He was usually, as he had demonstrated the other day with the now-unnecessary micro-surgical array, very observant about what she needed for her lab. She very rarely had to even hint, let alone ask outright. But she didn't blame him for being distracted today, not when his arch enemy, to use a cliche but imminently appropriate phrase, was at his mercy at last.

He raised an eyebrow at that. "I am not an errand boy," he growled, though softly, without malice.

"Well, I can't carry it," she persisted gamely. "It's about the size of my car."

"You probably could," Octavius replied, eyeing her actuators and lounging against the counter, arms folded again, his own actuators snaking lazily about him. To Parker's continually confounded view, the whole thing took on the air of a familiar back-and-forth.

She brought her actuators forward, examining them. Not as powerful-looking as his by a significant amount, they were nonetheless decidedly un-fragile. She looked at the damage she had done to her sturdy table. It could be possible. "Even if I could lift it," she admitted. "I can't drag it all the way back here by myself." She smiled up at him, her expression mischievous.

"Then I suppose you might have to be .. aided in this endeavors, am I right?" he asked, a smile playing at the corners of his own mouth.

_Great. Flirting supervillains., _Parker thought sourly. _This is so many levels of wrong..._

"You're thinking that person ought to be me?" he asked, looking down at her.

"Unless you think I should go ask the Lizard or the Goblin for a tutorial?" She tried to make her face innocent, but her mouth wouldn't co-operate, one corner twisting upwards.

"Those two? They couldn't teach a bird to fly," Octavius huffed. He sighed. "I suppose I'll have to do it. You are, after all most closely associated with me." Here he allowed himself a smirk. "Though you might want to put on something warmer before we leave."

Smiling, she looked down at herself. "I suppose you're right. I don't have any green spandex, but I'll find something appropriate, I'm sure."

This time Octavius had to fight to keep his amusement down. His mouth twitched anyway and he made a short snerk sound before regaining his aloof attitude. "I doubt there's any about to acquire, anyway. Go and find something and we shall head out. I'm sure the boy will keep for now."

Part of Peter Parker wanted to escape. The other part wanted to see how this turned out, because it was so very different to the typical behavior of his enemies. It was like watching some bizarre soap opera.

She smirked and set down her notebook. One actuator curled lazily against Otto's leg, as if on accident, as she moved past him out the door and up the stairs. Her shoulders shook with laughter suppressed as she went into their room, stepping over the nest and digging into her rather limited closet. She did take a moment longer to choose her clothes than she usually would have, but mostly because she was reluctant to tear holes in any of her few shirts. After a moment's indecision, she chose the blue-gray sweater that she'd worn on that mad road trip through Canada the year before. The necessary alterations made, she pulled it on, completing the 'outfit' with black pants and shoes. She caught a glimpse of herself in the closet mirror; she looked actually very much like she had seven years ago, when she met him. A more experienced face, perhaps, but little other change.

She went back down to the lab, remembering seeing her coat on the couch there. "I'm ready," she said to Otto, threading it on over the arms.

His fingers drew over her sweater's collar, feeling the softness of the knit. He remembered that sweater. A strangely appropriate choice. His eyes flicked to Parker. "I don't think I need to tell you of the consequences of any action so foolish as escape," he said. Parker nodded.

Octavius looked at Clair again, seeing her clad in a longcoat from under which gleaming actuators snaked, and again felt a strange swelling of pride. Again, a smile flickered across his features, then was gone. "Come, then," he said, and walked out the door. She followed and the lab was quiet.

In that quiet, Peter Parker had a lot of things to think about and the foremost was: _why hadn't they left a television on while they were gone?  
_

_Ah well._


	4. Tag, You're It

**Unreasonable Addiction III**

**Chapter 4: Tag**

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth

"AhHAAAH!" Clair whooped as she sped upwards through the night, towards the roof-tops. She had never felt so powerful. In the lab had been one thing, but out here, climbing walls and striding from building to building as though they were children's step-stones, the actuators thrilled her. They gleamed in the streetlights, moving steadily and purposefully at her will, carrying her downtown. She raced ahead, then stopped, clinging to the side of a building to wait for Otto.

He couldn't help but allow a smile to cross his features, hidden as it was by the high collar of his coat, as he followed her, watching her skitter about the rooftops with glee. He wondered if he had ever enjoyed his peculiar mode of locomotion. Perhaps. A long time ago. Now it was just enough to watch Clair, her own metal arms moving smoothly and surely, as she leapt and skittered from one rooftop to the next, then clung to a building and waited for him again, a smile on her face and the wind in her hair despite the bandage tied round her head.

With a smooth movement, she pulled herself up onto the building's roof as he reached it, grinning madly. "Why did you never tell me how much _fun _this is?" she demanded, laughing.

He hung, still and quiet, and reached out a hand to the side of her face, thumb drawing against her cheek made red by the chill air before pulling away. "It's not something I think about," he said.

She bent one actuator, bracing it against the roof and standing on its curve to take her weight off the harness. She gestured around them with her good arm, indicating the clearing sky, the moon-light rooftops, and the soaring heights of the city center not far away. "Do you think about any of this? It's beautiful, Otto. A part of the world that most people never see."

"I'm accustomed to it."

She deflated slightly, sighing. "I guess I'm just too new at this to look at things that way. I suppose I'm being childish. I know that these aren't toys, and yet..." She turned around, indicating the city again with a broad sweep of an actuator. "I see all this, and I realize that there is nowhere out here now that I _can't _go. It's all like a carnival without the "you must be this tall" signs."

"Yours is a fresh perspective," he said, "and entirely different to mine. Do not think of it as childish, I..." he paused, as though just realizing what he was saying, but continued. "...rather enjoy seeing such ... simple exhilaration." The smile lingered a little longer this time, only just visible around the edge of his collar.

She smiled back, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She drew very close to him, her actuators weaving around his without touching them. "See it through my eyes, then. There's something to be said for simple exhilaration," she said, her mouth inches from his. Her voice dropped suggestively. "And after all. You're It." She tagged him on the chest with her hand and bolted away, sprinting across the rooftop, laughing madly, twisting to look back at him.

He paused for an instant, motionless with utter incomprehension. Had she just...? She _had_. She sped across the rooftops and almost before he realized it, he was charging after her, vaulting and leaping over the buildings, swinging from spires, flashing past the windows of taller structures.

Your average New Yorker out on a night like this was, in all actuality, rather accustomed to the sight of people on the rooftops--if it wasn't Spider-man and his webs it was Doctor Octopus with his tentacles or the Green Goblin on his glider. Like everything else, the concept was handled with that typical New York complacency. They barely bothered to look up at the sound of actuator claws striking the buildings in such rapid succession. Had they looked up, they might have greeted the sight of _two _actuator-wearing figures flitting across the narrow gaps between buildings with a mildly interested "Huh," before continuing on their way.

Nothing different for your typical New Yorker, but for Otto Octavius, it was something altogether new. And, yes, exhilarating.

Clair shrieked with laughter as he, having the advantage of longer actuators and longer experience, gained on her. "You'll never catch meeeheeheeheehee!" she shouted over her shoulder, trying to sound melodramatic and spoiling it by not being able to suppress a giggle.

This, of course, only prompted him to move faster, actuators stretching even further, catching up to her, the wind in his hair and a truly dangerous smile on his face. He came up behind her, following as she dodged and ducked, almost in reach of his own arms.

When she saw him so close, she grinned, and dropped abruptly as they passed over a gap between two buildings, swinging down onto a fire escape in a huge clatter of metal on metal. Unfortunately, this left her no where else to go.

He stopped, hanging over her, and two of his actuators snagged two of hers, lifting her up, then curling around her body as she came closer, eventually drawing her up to eye level with him. The smirk on his face was unmistakable. He'd won.

Still laughing, she twined her actuators around them both. "You win," she smirked, and then kissed him, wrapping her arm around his neck.

"Mmmm..." He closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss. "I always do," he murmured after their lips separated, opening his eyes again and looking at her, her eyes bright and her cheeks red. A smile crossed his face again and one hand slipped through her hair.

"Yes, you do. As much as I'd love to give you your prize, weren't we doing something?" she said reluctantly, pulling back. Her ribs twinged, reminding her that being too... playful had its costs right now. She would heal soon, she hoped, but until then...

"We were, weren't we?" he replied, his fingers lingering lightly on her face and neck. His eyes flicked about the cityscape until he found his bearings. "It's that way," he said, indicating a direction vaguely to the right and vaguely behind them.

She unwound her arms, all of them, from around him, suspending herself over the edge of the building. Her smile returned. She wasn't ready to stop playing just yet. "Race you there?"

He looked at her sidelong, as though he were about to say something, and in the next instant he was gone, leaping through the air toward their destination, actuators ringing against the concrete of the buildings, obviously far faster than he would usually go.

She grinned and followed as fast as she could, fairly flying above the streets. The wind was icy in her face, but it didn't matter as she caught up, slowly.

Another few moments of this passed and Octavius slowed, then coming to a stop clinging to the side of a building, between the windows of two apartments. "There it is," he said, indicating what was clearly a hospital building.

Clair caught up, perching on the window sill to his right. Absently, she rubbed her shoulder, which was beginning to ache. "A portable MRI would be kept near the ER," she supplied, looking down at the ambulance bay off to one side, quiet now. She could see two surgeons in blue scrubs taking a break just outside the double doors. "Let's go in, shall we?"

* * *

The desk receptionist wasn't as helpful as Hanover would have liked, and continued taking her time with the request even after he and Martin had shown her their IDs. Even now, she still sat at her computer, slowly going through the requisite windows, all the while telling him at every window what this meant in terms of the patient privacy laws and whatnot, as though in an attempt to exonerate herself from any legal entanglements this breach of privacy might create. Hanover leaned against the desk, idly listening to the television showing a rerun of _Friends_. What kind of hospital was this where they tormented the sick with godawful sitcoms?

Martin took a sip of coffee from her paper cup and almost spat it out. Apparently, the waiting room pot had been sitting there all day, and it was as thick as tar and about as potable. She sighed and set it aside. "You never realize how many ERs there are in New York until you taste each of their coffee. This one's the worst, what do you think?"

Just looking at the coffee caused Hanover to pull a face. "It's pretty crappy, but I think--" he broke off at the sound of screams, looking at the doors that led to the Emergency Room. "Some poor loser with a steering column through his chest?" he wondered aloud. Two seconds later it became evident that this was not your typical Emergency Room emergency, but the huge crashing thuds and then an rage-triggering familiar sound: metal thrusting itself forcefully into a surface. Actuators.

Octopus.

Whipping out his gun in one hand and his ID in the other, Hanover ran for the doors despite the receptionist's protests, pushing the doors open and running through them. Martin followed at a run, drawing her own gun. Inside the ER, she stopped just behind Hanover, staring at the scene.

The scene in question looked like something out of a cheesy movie. People still ran screaming and in the middle of it was Octavius, hanging from his actuators, motionless. One of the limbs shot out, grabbed a screaming nurse, and hauled her up to his eye level. "The MRI array. Where is it?" he asked, his voice a soft growl. Sweating, Hanover sidled round for a better shot.

Terrified, the nurse pointed to her right. "It-it-it's th-that way..." she stuttered. "Be-behind the d-d--d-door that s-says 'M-magnetic Imaging..."

He dropped the nurse and she fell on her rump on the floor before scurrying under a desk in the nurse's station on her hands and knees. "Come" Octavius said, heading in the indicated direction.

"Who's he talking -" Martins began, but then more of the metal-to-floor sounds came, and from the other direction. She snapped her head around to see a smaller figure come through the destroyed door, also on actuators. Much smaller. It took her a moment to recognize the grinning face of Dr. Holmes under a white bandage around her head. A grey longcoat hid the rest of her, one arm missing from its sleeve. Looking around the scene with an interested, academic sort of smile, she followed Octavius, her movements quicker than his, less smooth. Martin stared after them both.

Going white, Hanover nearly dropped his gun. "That ... _bastard_..." He raised his gun again and made to fire, but Octavius had disappeared around a corner. Cursing, Hanover chased after him--_them_. He couldn't believe Octavius had suckered Holmes in so completely that she now wore tentacles as well? That she accompanied him on these crime outings like some perverse kind of sidekick? He pelted round the corner, his gun still up, pushing past a petrified tech.

Martin was at Hanover's side as he ran around the corner, and as they both ran into an outstretched tentacle, blocking their path. Dr. Holmes smiled down at them, lifted almost to the ceiling on her extra arms. She was about to say something, but then she stopped, staring at Hanover. The smile crept back. "I remember you. Agent... Handover, wasn't it?"

"Hanover," Hanover corrected almost unconsciously. then he blurted, "My _God_, what's he _done _to you?"

Holmes's brows furrowed and she looked down at herself. Martin could see the shape of her other arm under her coat, pressed to her side and immobile, as if in a sling. "Nothing I didn't ask him to do," she said, shrugging one thin shoulder eloquently.

A feeling of the utter _creepiness _of her answer washed over Hanover and nearly made him nauseous. "Ask him... what are you talking about?"

Her grin broke open, and she laughed. "The arms, Agent Handover. He gave me the actuators because I asked for them. What are you _thinking_ about?"

Hanover's gun came up at the sound of crashing and screaming nearby. "I don't think so," he said, his gaze flicking between Holmes and the source of the noise. "I don't think he could have done anything just because you _asked _him to. It's a means of control. You're in his debt now, or worse..."

"Oh, I imagine you'd think it much worse, Agent Handover," she said, bending at the waist to loom over him, in a very _Octavian_ pose. "He not only gave these to me because I asked him to, he gave them to me because I _needed_ him to. I couldn't have gone on without them. I'm not in his debt, Agent Hanover. I _belong to him_." She straightened, one eyebrow rising above her glasses. "I never did thank you for your gullibility, did I?"

"Th-my..." Hanover stuttered, for the moment lost for words, for witty arguments, for supposedly astute observations. There was a tremendous crash and an MRI machine came through the wall, supported by silvery actuators, followed by Octavius' looming form. Hanover's eyes flicked between Octavius and Holmes. His lips moved wordlessly. He swallowed audibly and raised his gun.

Clean in Hanover's sights, Octavius turned to look at him.

A rapid, jerky strike, and Hanover's hand was pinned against the wall by one of Holmes's actuators. Martin shifted her aim to the woman, then back to Octavius, trying to cover them both. Holmes's smile had disappeared, and she winced, her real hand going to her shoulder. "Otto," she grated, holding the joint. "You remember Agent Hanover, don't you?"

"Agent Hanover, I am delighted to see you," Octavius purred, leaning in closer. "Why, I hear you've been tailing me, haven't you? Tell me, have you any ... observations to make after so much information-gathering? I daresay by now you know what color my underwear is and where my mother and father met each other, isn't that right?" One actuator claw came up, grasping Hanover's head and his friendly tone dropped instantly. "I'll only tell you this once, you prying little weasel, _stay out of my way_. You and your partner," he finished, his gaze tracking to look at Martin, who was still trying to cover both him and Holmes.

Holmes left Hanover to Octavius and stepped towards Martin. Martin steadied her gun at Holmes, issuing a low warning. "Make him let him go." Clair froze in her sights, visibly losing some of her confidence.

One of Octavius' actuators shot forward, disarming Martin with a sickening crack against her wrist. The gun went flying. He returned his attention to Hanover. "This is your only warning. Perhaps you ought to sleep on it." The actuator gripping Hanover's head drove it against the wall with another meaty thwack and he slumped to the floor. "Come," he said again, and picked up the MRI array, exiting through the window.

Clutching her wrist, Martin could only stare as Holmes gave a sarcastic bow and followed Octavius out, taking some of the weight of the MRI herself. "I wonder what name Jameson will give me?" she thought she heard Holmes ask as she darted to Hanover's side, checking his pulse.

The police who had shown up at the site were at a loss as to what to do about what appeared to be two Doctor Octopuses--Octopi, and apart from firing a few shots at them as they retreated back up a building, their response was pretty much ineffective. Things grew as quiet as they could for New York City at this altitude and at this time of the evening, and Octavius and Clair made their way home with the prize held high in one actuator each, slowed by it considerably.

Clair was still laughing as they worked together to maneuver the MRI into basement through its rarely used outside door, which led into an alley behind the house. "I can't believe we ran into Hanover. What are the odds?"

"Surprisingly, not as slim as you'd think," Octavius replied soberly. "People like them have a tendency toward improbable timing."

"The man's an idiot," she remarked, sliding past the machine to clear a space for it, waving a greeting to their captive. "He still doesn't get it."

Between them the MRI was pushed into the corner that had been cleared for it and Octavius stepped back, looking the machine over for a moment before he turned his attention to Parker. Parker, for his part, watched them both warily. Clair looked proudly at the new acquisition, then set to hooking it up. "Not bad for a first job, right?" she asked casually, turning to look at Otto while her actuators made the connections.

"You let them intimidate you," he replied, peering at the Tesla scanner's readouts. "Never let them intimidate you or the whole idea is lost."

"I was doing fine until she pointed the gun at me," she said defensively. "I've never had a gun aimed at me before. I'll get better." She stepped back, rubbing her shoulder and making a face. "There, that's ready."

"You're going to see a lot of guns pointed at you if you continue in this kind of life," he replied, looking down at her.

"I'm perfectly aware of that," she said, hand on her hip. "That was just the first, is all. I'm allowed one moment of weakness."

Octavius had turned away from Holmes, but Peter was able to see his expression, and watched as the other's brow furrowed in that spectacular scowl he'd seen time and again. Octavius turned back. "One moment of weakness is all they'll need! There is no room for weakness here! You cannot afford it!" One actuator rummaged in a storage bin and came up with a familiar item--the gun Octavius had lifted off the man in the bar in Lort. Somehow he'd managed to keep it with him all this time. The actuator dropped it in his hand and he aimed it at her, cocking the hammer back. "This situation clearly calls for an object lesson."

She blinked, but held her ground. He wouldn't fire. She glared past the barrel at him. "This is stupid. We both know you won't fire that gun."

He fired.

The noise was deafening in the small confines of the lab, but what startled her even more was the blur of silver that crossed her vision. The bulled _spanged _off of it harmlessly, and the slender actuator lowered itself, revealing to her a view of Octavius still standing there, gun pointed at her, motionless.

She stared at him, not breathing for a very long moment. Her mouth slowly closed and she brought the actuator up again, looking at the tiny mar on its finish. She held very still as it snapped forward to tear the gun out of Otto's hands, joining with another to snap it in half and fling the pieces at him.

He remained motionless, silent, staring at her as the pieces of the firearm missed him by millimeters. His own actuators curled inward and his face remained impassive. Behind him, Parker stared.

The reaction coursed through her, leaving, after a seeming eternity, reason in its wake. She breathed out heavily, and nodded. "As... lessons go, that was effective. Abrupt, but effective."

"And what has it taught you?" Octavius asked, again leading her thoughts. Behind him, Parker started breathing again.

"That I don't have to be intimidated, just because they have a gun." she said. "As long as I remain in control, they aren't a threat."

He nodded. "Knowing that," he said, "Spells the difference between life and death. Whether it's a frightened cop with a gun or someone like him," he looked at Parker, who stared resolutely back at him. "Always maintain control."

Watching this abject lesson, Parker couldn't help but come to the conclusion that that was why he had to fight Ock time and again, why the man gave him more of a contest than possibly any of his other enemies. Ock knew that it all came down to control And now someone else knew, too.

She nodded, her face serious as she internalized the lesson, examined it from every angle. And found it sound. The actuator curled up under her hand. "I will remember that," she said at last, relaxing slightly.

"Good," he said. "Good." He looked as though he would say something else, but he remained silent, almost appearing as though he didn't know where to put himself. He looked at the MRI, he looked at Parker, he looked at Clair, his gaze traveled along the lab, stopping briefly at the hole the bullet left in the wall. He turned and started for the door, muttering something about needing a drink.

Clair reached out an actuator to clasp his shoulder. "Thank you." she said earnestly, without waiting for him to turn around.

Octavius paused, but didn't turn. "Join me?" he said, somewhere between a directive and a request.

She didn't say anything, but went to him, slipping her arm around his waist and accompanying him upstairs.

Parker watched them disappear, and let his head drop back onto the table. Great. Who knows what they'd end up doing there and here he was, still strapped to the table, hungry, thirsty scared to pieces ... and still without a television.

* * *

The study was probably the least sparse room in the body of the house, lined with crowded bookshelves and a trio of glowing computers in one corner; Otto's. But Clair's goal in there this time was the gorgeous oak liquor cabinet that stood benevolently by the door. Pulling away from Otto, she opened it and took out Otto's great blown glass brandy snifter and a bottle of the potent stuff, last of a shipment that he had lifted from a five-star restaurant nearly a year ago. She brought them both over to the table by his squashy leather armchair, following a ritual formed by occasional nights of his coming home empty-handed and beaten. She poured him his drink, but then she broke tradition by keeping the bottle herself, getting another glass and pouring her own dose, taking her seat on the other side of the table and regarding the liquor thoughtfully.

He dropped into the armchair and leaned back as far as the actuators would allow, his eyes closed. After a beat, he reopened them, found the glass, and took a pull of the brandy, feeling its burning warmth ease his insides at least a little. He looked at her over the rim of the glass, seeing she had one of her own this time. "You do realize," he said, setting the glass down, "that if you drink that, I will probably have thoroughly corrupted you." Here one corner of his mouth quirked upward, and he regarded her quietly.

She smiled crookedly and raised the glass in salute to him before downing half of it in a gulp, then choked and coughed as her throat rebelled against the burning stuff.

A full smile crossed his features this time. "Careful," he said, sounding amused. "It's best sipped, not gulped." He took another drink as though to illustrate his point. "It's smooth, but it still burns." A third pull emptied the glass and one actuator reached for the bottle and poured another measure into the glass, something he didn't often do.

She looked at him pointedly as she recovered, taking a much more moderate sip this time. She could feel her joints loosen and she sat back, leaning against the actuators. "I was going to say, it's a little late. I'd judge myself rather thoroughly corrupted already. And you don't get all the credit for it, either. I was doing illegal medical experimentation before you came back." Another sip, and she could feel her joints begin to loosen. The pain in her ribs and shoulder receded somewhat.

"Ah," he said, smirking. "But can you say that you would have done said illegal experimentation had I not abducted you in the first place?" Another pull, and he watched her over the rim of the glass as he drank.

"Now that, I can't say," she admitted, clearing her throat. "If you hadn't abducted me, I don't know that I would have ever completed the ZJ. It's all in the motivation, apparently. If I hadn't completed the ZJ, I doubt I would ever have come up against a situation where the testing I needed would be illegal in the first place." Another sip. "Or I might have dropped out of medicine entirely."

"So you see?" He drained the glass. "I can take all the credit." A beat. "And I will," he finished, his smirk maybe a little wider, now. The actuator poured a third glass, and he eyed the bottle.

"That's the last bottle," she warned, refilling her own glass. "You'll have to get more." She sat back again, thinking. "If I'd dropped out of medicine, I would have gone to work for my father." She didn't sound terribly pleased with that idea, and her lip curled slightly.

Another burning mouthful. "Oh? Doing what?" That look on her face and the tone of her voice pushed into his mind a memory of his own father, but he pushed that memory aside.

"He owns a little bar upstate. Both my older sisters work there as bartenders, and my little brother is the manager. A real family affair." She took another sip, holding it in her mouth for a while before swallowing it. "I was good at mixing drinks. If it weren't for the scholarship, I doubt that Dad would have let me leave when I graduated."

"That doesn't sound all that bad, the way you've described it," he murmured, looking into his glass.

She looked over at him, her face unreadable. "Do the math, Otto. I was fifteen, sixteen, working in what amounts to little more than a truckstop tavern. It's not conducive to fond memories."

"Mmm," he said, downing the glass. "I see. Yes, I can see how you'd want to escape it. It'd be a waste of a fine intellect in a place like that, surrounded by the dregs of what people think of as humanity."

She rolled the glass between her palms, thinking. She didn't think about her family often. "My oldest sister, Jennifer, has a daughter now, I think. I got a letter once while I was in Seattle, just once. I didn't even know she was married."

He leaned his chin on his hand and watched her. "Mmmm, quite a mundane existence," he mused.

She smiled at that, her eyes flicking sideways to his. "I'd have gone mad within a year, taken the local quilt group hostage, and started a life on the run. See, you actually _delayed _my ultimate corruption, the way I see it."

The actuator picked up the bottle and poured yet another glassful. "Delayed it," he said, watching this action, "to greater effect, wouldn't you say?"

She held her glass out for another refill as well. "Oh yes. Left to my own devices, I'd have botched the whole supervillain thing my first time out and ended up in some institution, writing my memoirs on the walls with my toes and a red crayon."

This struck him as strangely funny, and he chuckled, filling her glass. "I've done something similar. It's hardly a fulfilling use of one's time."

'No, I imagine not. And it would have been such a short memoir, too. Hardly Ockumentary material." She laughed, a little off-balanced. "I really will have to pick up a copy of the Bugle tomorrow. I can't wait to find out what cleverness Jameson will come up with." She looked back into her glass. "I wonder if my mom reads the Bugle."

"What would you think if she did?" he asked, softly, back to leaning his chin on his hand. He felt warm and sleepy, but watched her anyway through half-lidded eyes.

"I don't know," she said, taking another sip. It was getting to her head now. "She was so proud of me. Came to my graduation, brought me a huge orchid lei to wear so she could pick me out from the crowd. And then I disappeared, and it was almost a year before the Program let me call her. And they never let me give her a number so she could call me. My calls were screened the whole time I lived there." She raised her eyebrows. "Apparently, they thought a _phone call_ from you was the greater risk. But that's neither here nor there. I haven't spoken to my mom in..." She took another sip, trying to think. "Four years."

"Family only serves to get in the way," he mumbled, looking at the glass and wondering why it was empty.

"She used to make the best cookies," she continued, smiling fondly. "Big round sugary ones. On Fridays after school. I never learned how. She taught Moira and Jennifer, but I was too busy to learn."

"Cookies ... pies ... cocoa with marshmallows in when it was cold and they hurt more..." he mumbled.

"When what hurt more?" she asked, shooting him a glance.

"Injuries... hurts when you're beaten up every day... more so when it's cold," he mumbled. Ordinarily this subject wouldn't have been the easiest to mention, almost impossible, really, but as warm and sleepy as he was, he simply found himself talking, words coming out as though someone else was pulling them out of his mind.

She nodded. "Mark was picked on in school, my brother. He was tiny, like me, but with a mouth like the bug. Always in trouble with someone. Dad used to get so mad when the other kids broke his glasses... He'd go to their houses and threaten to beat up their parents if they didn't pay for new ones. Dad's a big guy." she added, glancing up as if the man in question was standing in front of her.

"Used to punish me when they got broken" Octavius mumbled sleepily. "Used to take them off a lot ... just so they wouldn't get broken again..."

"That's not very fair," she said, indignant on his behalf.

"Mmmm," he rumbled. "No such thing as 'fair.' 'S just the way it was."

She got up and moved over to perch on the arm of his chair, wrapping her arm around his neck and resting her cheek against the top of his head. She couldn't think of anything to say. "It's as fair as you make it," she said at last. "It's a lot better now, isn't it?"

"Infinitely," he mumbled. "Old bastard's dead."

She sat back a bit, watching his face. "Did you...?"

He smiled ruefully. "No, though I wish I had. He was killed by injuries from an accident at a construction site," he said slowly.

"Hn," she said, considering. "I'd pictured your parents as artists or astrophysicists or something exceptional like that."

"Construction foreman and housewife," he mumbled. "Aggressively mundane."

"Certainly an argument against the inherited IQ theory," she said into his hair. "So where _does _your genius come from?"

"I don't know." he mumbled, leaning toward her, his hand finding hers. "I think I remember hearing about a few people on my father's side who were artists or some kind of virtuoso--" he inched his way through the word, "musicians."

"'Art in the blood takes the strangest forms,'" she quoted, wavering a bit on her perch.

As sleepy as he was, he saw her wobble and reached out, actuators curling around her and pulling her close to him. "I suppose it does," he murmured. "I saw art in what I did."

She leaned against him, tracing one of his actuators with a finger. "There's art in these."

"Mmmm," he replied. "Gleaming, sinuous of form..." another soft, slow chuckle.

"Powerful, deceptively dangerous..." She wrapped her own around them both, a slow, sleepy embrace.

His own arm curled around her and he leaned his head against her, sighing a long sigh. "Think I drank t'much," he mumbled, still smiling.

"Know I did," she mumbled back, her eyes drifting shut. "Think I'm a little drunk."

He sighed again, but didn't say anything, his breathing already slow and deep. His fingers curled against her side for a moment, then relaxed, and presently she heard the soft buzz of his snoring.

She rallied long enough to pull away, fumbling at the catch of the harness she wore until it gave way. The brandy made it so the withdrawal of the connections did nothing more than make her grunt sleepily as the actuators fell away, and then she arranged herself carefully against Otto, her head pillowed on his chest. She pulled a throw over them both, and soon was asleep as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Unreasonable Addiction III**

**Chapter Five: Delays**

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth

* * *

Neither of them moved until sunlight filtered through the window, leaving a square patch of light in front of them. His eyes fluttering open, Octavius noticed they'd fallen asleep in that armchair, and that his back hurt terribly because of it, and that Clair was still asleep. He looked at her, watching her from an inch away, then drew his fingers along her cheek. The bruising had gone down but was still visible, and he brushed his fingertips over the greenish-bluish splotch below the bandage.

She stirred, squeezing her eyes shut tighter before they fluttered open. Light lanced in, and she clenched them shut again with a groan.

"What did I do last night?" she groaned, covering her eyes with a hand.

"You drank my brandy," came the reply. He pushed strands of her hair behind her ear, expressionless and quietly intent.

"Ngnnm, that's ridiculous. I don't-" She paused, slitting her eyes open. "I did, didn't I? My head is going to fall off."

"It won't fall off," he said, a slight smile crossing his pale features. He continued to run his fingers along her temple, behind her ear, then bring them back up again, slowly, over and over.

"Why not?" she said wistfully, rubbing her temples. "It would probably feel better on the floor. As long as the floor's not spinning like you are. Stop that."

"I'm not spinning," he said. "You're just dizzy, is all." His arms tightened around her for a moment as he was pushed out of the chair and onto his feet by the actuators. He turned and put her in the chair, draping the throw over her. He leaned forward and kissed her, his hair brushing against her face, before leaving the room quietly.

She sat up, trying to get the spinning under control. Her head felt like someone had bowled a three hundred with it, and her mouth felt as if she'd been drinking sand, rather than expensive brandy. The bottle, she noticed, was very nearly empty on the table next to her. She'd probably been staring at it for a while before a glass was put carefully to her lips, the water in it touching them a moment later.

She jumped, startled, then looked up at Otto and took the glass, taking a long sip and putting her head back against the back of the chair. "At least I know I haven't been missing anything, not drinking all these years."

"Not really," he said, leaning against the table and watching her.

The water helped, and she soon felt more like herself, though her head still felt fragile. She wrapped the throw around her shoulders. "I didn't make a fool of myself last night, did I? I think I remember talking about my parents..."

"At least you had an excuse," Octavius replied, head turned to look out the window. "I don't recall having been the least bit drunk when I rambled my childhood memories to my hostage." He continued looking out the window, the light glinting off his goggles and whitening his profile.

"In your defense," she said, watching him. "That wasn't too long before we met, right? The, eh, problem was probably in its early stages at that point."

"True. Though I have vague memories of this condition existing for a while before that. Still, I think you've more of an excuse than I do. Rambling is a common side-effect to drinking."

"Another reason to avoid it." She shifted, adjusting the angle of her splinted leg. "Although it's a very effective painkiller."

That smile flickered across his face again and he turned to look at her. "Why do you think I drink it?" he asked. Apropos of nothing, she realized his face was paler than usual, hair hanging around it in midnight strands.

She looked up at him, squinting a little. She wasn't sure where her glasses had gone. "Are you okay? You're pale. Even for you."

"Mmm?" he blinked at her, or at least she figured he did behind those dark goggles. "Oh, it's nothing. Just ... drank too much last night, same as you." He shifted against the table and winced.

She reached out and snagged her actuators by their harness, pulling them over and struggling to get them on over the broken arm.

Still leaning against the table and trying not to move, he watched her do this, one actuator almost absently locating the clothing she'd been wearing over her harness.

She got it on at last, stiffening with an indrawn breath as she fastened the clasps and the needles re-inserted themselves. She lifted herself up on them, looking at him, observing for the first time, his stiff posture. "Is it your back?"

For an answer, he shifted painfully again. "Sleeping in that chair is not a good idea, especially while wearing actuators," he muttered.

"I should have realized," she said, feeling somewhat guilty. "If you take them off, I'll rub your back for you. It might help."

He blinked at this and looked at her with his head cocked slightly to the side, regarding her. And it hit him just how much of an influence she'd had on him in the past year. Two years ago, he never would have allowed someone to come that close to him, and certainly never would have removed his actuators in anyone else's presence. He did things himself, was beholden to no-one, never accepted _help._

And now, with all her closeness and affection and the little changes in his thought pattern that snowballed to this, he had the sudden thought that she was ... taming him.

Nonsense. But part of him wondered, nonetheless, if being domesticated would really be that much of a bad thing, that same part that had him now unbuttoning his coat the rest of the way, and his shirt, and unlatching the harness, disconnecting the actuators.

She circled behind him, pulling his harness and the actuators out of the way and digging her fingers gently into the flesh of his upper back, seeking out the knots of tension around the spine. It was something she hadn't done for a long time, and never for Otto. She didn't think about Brandon, as a rule, so she didn't remember the last time she'd given a backrub. She bent close as she worked one-handed, her hair just brushing the top of his spine.

His eyes slipped shut and he sighed, the sensation sometimes reaching such a level of knife's edge exquisiteness that his breath caught. He'd never really taken into consideration how sensitive the contact points were. His head dropped forward, and a soft, rumbling "Mmmm" escaped him. He opened his eyes again after a beat and realized they were still standing. Carefully, he sat down on the floor, looking back at her.

She smiled affectionately at him. "This would be better if you lie down." She offered him a hand to stand again, indicating the direction of the bedroom with a nod.

He looked at her, then at the hand, then took it, standing and following her to the bedroom, watching her walk carefully in her headachy dizziness. The brief thought that they should get back to the lab to at least look in on their subject flickered through his mind, but it was easily forgotten, especially when he got into the bedroom and was instructed to lie down on his stomach, which he did, realizing the nest felt strangely softer than usual.

Awkwardly, she sat down next to him, her splinted leg out straight and her good one folded under her, leaning over him to rub deeper, avoiding the tiny contact points and the dim bruises where the "footprints" of the actuators had pressed against his back. She could feel the tightness in his back, a stiffness older than one night's bad sleep.

His eyes slipped shut again and a long, quiet _Mmmmm_ sound rumbled in his throat. Warmth blossomed where her hand rubbed and that warmth was almost indescribable, releasing things that he'd simply become accustomed to in their permanently tightened state. She rocked forward, putting her weight behind her hand. She could feel the muscles relaxing, though reluctantly. "Better?" she asked, not stopping.

"Mmmmm, yes," he mumbled, barely audibly. One hand reached up and pulled his goggles from his face, his eyes closed. He didn't feel as though he could open them again, but that didn't seem much of a loss.

She continued the massage, her hand moving slower and slower along his spine until it stopped, resting lightly on the small of his back. She bent and left a light kiss on his shoulder blade, sighing happily. "As much as I'd love to fall asleep next to you here, I still have an experiment to finish. Do you want to watch?"

He stirred, finally forcing his eyes open, black slits that looked up at her. "Hnnnn... that would require movement," he mumbled slowly.

"Quite likely," she said, stirring herself and lifting herself from the tangle of the nest. "I rather doubt that you want me to bring the bug up here while I pick his brain."

He sucked in a huge breath and sighed, nodding. "True, that," he mumbled, and pushed himself off the bed, locating his goggles and covering his eyes with them again. He stood, looking down at her again, then bent and kissed her.

She returned the kiss warmly, then touched the corner of one lense of his goggles. "I liked getting to see your eyes." She knew well by now why he had to wear them, the intense sensitivity he had to light, but she did, every so often, like to see past them.

The smile flickered again, rare and fleeting. His fingers slipped through her hair again and he straightened, looking down at her.

She smiled back, her hand lingering for a moment on his, and then turned, heading downstairs. She collected a pitcher of water and a glass as she passed through the kitchen; it had occurred to her that the bug had been bound in her basement for four days now, and she rather doubted that Otto had offering him much by way of hospitality. Death by dehydration would be a waste of a unique opportunity.

In the next room, he listened to her doing getting a pitcher of water as he reattached his actuators and located his shirt and long-coat. There was something strangely pleasant about that sound. He walked in after her, buttoning his shirt and watching her.

She turned to face him, filled pitcher held up in the grip of one of her actuators. "I'd rather our houseguest didn't die of thirst. He's not half as useful to me, dead." Opening the basement door, she headed down the stairs and into her lab.

Shrugging his coat on over his actuators and pausing for them to poke through the holes, he followed her downstairs and stopped behind her, seeing she'd stopped still in the doorway. He looked past her.

Parker had apparently worked one hand free, and Octavius could see that hand was strangely bent--he must have dislocated all the wrist and knuckle bones in order to fit it through the restraint--and bloodied from where skin had been scraped off, and was in the middle of trying to cut the other restraint with a tool he'd managed to reach. It was probably about halfway sliced through.

Parker was looking up at them in surprise. "Eh heh..." he said, his battered face grinning unconvincingly. "I ... really gotta pee..."

Clair set the pitcher and glass down on a counter top, looking at Parker. "You can't want to leave yet, we've only just started." One actuator snapped out and grabbed the tool he had, twisting it out of his hand.

"Aaagh... ehhh... and here ... I was gonna make a grocery run..." Parker managed, one eye squinting shut.

Tossing the tool aside, the claw latched onto his forearm, above the misshapen wrist. Clair stayed well back, her face set in an observational neutral. "Perhaps keeping you awake for this isn't the best choice." A lower actuator retrieved a vial of anesthetic, fitting it into the other arm as it extended its needle.

A pair of hands came down on her shoulders, and she could feel their heat through her sweater. One of Octavius' actuators intercepted hers, its claw grasping hers.  
She turned to look at Otto. "What?"

"I think we could much more easily simply restrain him again," Octavius replied, stepping into the room. His actuators held Parker down, and he located another restraint, tying Parker's wrist down even more tightly, his face expressionless as he tightened the remaining restraints.

"Gee, Ock," Parker grated. "Your hospitality's ... engh... hardly Martha Stewart..."

"Otto," Clair pointed out. "I can't put the table into the MRI scanner with him. That's the next step."

There was a pause as Octavius grew very still. He blinked. He considered, for a moment, that maybe he could _make_ the table fit into the MRI, but that would be counterproductive. He sighed. "Very well," he growled, and one actuator picked up a rather nasty-looking sharp tool with which he sliced the restraints, but held Parker down with his actuators.

Clair moved over to the MRI's computer, typing in a series of commands. The bench slid out, looking like a drawer in a morgue. "Have you ever had an MRI done before, Parker?"

"Nope," came the reply as he tried very hard not to look at Octavius' face as the other loomed over him. "Can't say I've gone on that ride."

She nodded to Otto and indicated that he should move Parker onto the bench. "Do you think that you can co-operate and hold absolutely still? Or do I have to sedate you for this?" She'd rather scan his waking brain, but she would take what she could get at the moment. Her upper actuators hovered over her shoulders, the needle still extended from one.

Parker's eyes flicked from Holmes and her syringes and claws, to Octavius, who smirked evilly. This was not a time to try to escape. He nodded. "I'll stay still." He certainly didn't want to be sedated with those two in the room.

"Clever of you," she murmured, withdrawing the needle and clacking that claw shut. She ran the start-up, and the machine hummed, ready.

Why he didn't feel more suspicious about this, Parker had no idea. He'd gone this long without extensive examination for fear of exploitation by the military or unscrupulous corporate ventures like Oscorp. The last thing he wanted was to end up a lab rat in some clandestine think-tank, a state which would prevent him from going about his business of fighting people like the ones who currently held him captured as, of all things, a lab rat. The irony was almost sickening. What was even more sickening was that he could more easily trust the likes of Doctor Octopus and his newest _paramour_ with this information than he could his own government. They ran on a much more private scale, interested in only their own aims.

This, however, didn't loosen the knots in his stomach at all, or quell the nausea. Then again it could simply be the four days of no food and very little water talking. He watched Holmes carefully.

With Parker installed within the machine, Clair snagged a stool and perched on it in front of the screens, guiding the scan to the part of his brain that she wanted. "Yesss," she said slowly as the images filled the screen. She tapped the glass. "_That _is not a human neurological structure." Caught in fuzzy grays and whites, a lace-like, multi-armed shape sat just under the familiar form of the temporal lobe, tendrils extending into the cerebellum and brainstem.

Octavius leaned in closer to look, peering at the display. This explained a lot, actually. That new organ, an extension of the brain, was enough to account for Spider-man's supernatural reflexes and precognition. The tendrils connected it to so many parts of Parker's primitive brain structure, perhaps interconnecting them, that he suspected removing it might completely destroy a number of key brain functions. He gazed at that image for a while until it almost seemed to take on the shape of a spider. Ironic, that.

"One wonders if it does anything to increase speed of existing brain activity or if it fortifies it with added connexions. Or both."

"What would happen if we turned it off?" she wondered aloud, running through the idea in her head. It would be more difficult, but, if she got a sample, a serum-carrying virus could conceivably be programmed to attack only the unusual structure. "Hmm. Would his brain maintain human-standard functioning, or is it dependant on the aberration?"

"Debatable," Octavius replied. "They're all so closely interlinked and have been for so long, there's no telling how interdependent they are."

"We'll find out," she decided. It would be killing two birds with one stone; a challenging test of the destructive powers of the Zombie Juice and an investigation of the curiosity that was the bug. She shut down the machine, leaving the relevant scans onscreen with their spatial coordinates. The bench slid out while she stared at Parker's head, mentally looking inside it to the sprawling mutation. "Yes, I'll need to take a sample first."

"Uh..." Parker said, momentarily floored by this. "Gee, much as I hate to stand in the way of scientific progress, I can't let you take away my Spidey-powers, I mean, really, what would I put on my business cards, then?" Spotting an opening, he curled and jumped, relieved that he could still stick to the ceiling. His eyes flicked about the room, seeing his web-shooters on one table and his mask on another. He'd need both. Web-shooters first. He started across the ceiling toward the table.

"Oh, no, you don't," Clair growled, upper two actuators thrusting up to knock him off the ceiling.

He leapt before they even got close, crashing into the table and grabbing the web-shooters as he went. Rolling, he managed to clip one to his wrist before dodging Octavius' strike. He couldn't use the other one, his hand was in too bad of shape. Rather than lose the web-shooter, though, he put it on the other wrist anyway. He jumped out of the way of another actuator strike, sticking to the wall and spotting a small window near the ceiling.

"No!" Clair shouted, seeing him glance at the basement's only window. Her subject was _not_ going to escape. She picked up the table he'd been bound to and flung it at him with a jerk that hurt her shoulder and ribs.

He saw the table coming and leapt again, his Spider-sense screaming at him by now. "You two really are a cute couple," he quipped, dodging actuators and flung objects as though his life depended on it, which it did. A web snatched his mask and he yanked it on as he rolled, but it distracted him enough for Octavius to crack him upside the head with an actuator claw. His grip on the wall slipped and he fell among a clatter of upset medical instruments. Octavius charged toward him, growling.

Clair dodged to one side as Otto rushed straight forward, maneuvering to flank the bug, all the while picking up anything expendable and throwing it at him; books, chairs, an empty box marked "radioactive." It put her on a line between him and the window, and she extended one actuator back to bar the aperture.

Spider-man barely managed to dodge as Octavius lunged for his throat, and webbed him good, sticking him to the wall. He flipped and stuck to a corner of the ceiling and wall, looking down at them. He saw Clair's actuator block the window and the door was too far away. He dodged another thrown object. "With those things, I'd hate to see your lovers' spats," he said, shifting, then leaping forward, landing a calculated blow against Clair's injured shoulder on his way to sticking to the other wall.

Bone shifted brutally and Clair screamed, her actuators curling in around her protectively as she fell to the floor, struggling not to black out, then they lashed wildly out again at the bug, trying to impale him against the tile wall. Thoroughly expecting this barrage, he leapt free of Clair's attack, rebounded off the ceiling, and was smacked out of the air with a resounding _thwack_ by one of Octavius' arms. Octavius, for his part, managed to tear himself free of the webbing, leaving a few chunks of hair stuck to the wall in the process, and bore down on him, actuators thumping him into the floor. Spider-man managed to roll out of the way of the next strike, snapped to his feet, and kicked, a blow that snapped Octavius' head back and caused him to reel for a split second before he made for the window, smashing it open with a fist and nipping out through the hole. There was a _thwipp_ sound and he was gone. Octavius yanked the door open and charged up the stairs.

Forcing the pain back and ignoring the new shape of her shoulder, Clair lifted herself back up, tearing open the doors that led outside and climbing up into the alley. Out here, with more room, the actuators would be more effective, but only if the blasted bug hadn't chosen just to run.

Octavius had climbed up over the house to the side where the window let out, and caught Spider-man before he had a chance to get up to the top of the lamppost he'd targeted. He yanked the arachnid from the pole and slammed him against the sidewalk, but Spider-man slipped free, bounced off the actuator, and flipped over another actuator, bounced off another, and grabbed Octavius' head, allowing his downward momentum to overbalance him and crack his head against the sidewalk before Spider-man flipped away, heading for the lamppost again.

Clair reached them and grabbed the lamp-post, snapping it off with a painful effort and swinging it at the bug like a baseball bat, two actuators braced against the pavement and two holding the pole.

If the noise hadn't alerted Spider-man to her intent, his Spider-sense was miles ahead of her already. He flipped over it, but his action was slowed enough by his injuries that it hit his ankle, causing him to flip wildly in the other direction. A web shot at the next lamppost corrected his course and he swung past Clair and onto another roof, swinging off another lamppost and out of sight.

Octavius stirred, rolling over and pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, actuators bracing against the ground.

Clair shrieked after him in rage, her fist clenched, hair wild across her face. It took her a long moment to regain control, gritting her teeth and breathing heavily as the adrenaline began to drain. She turned to face Otto, holding her shoulder tightly with her free hand.

He stared after Spider-man's retreating form, and one hand went up to the back of his head, coming away red with blood and slightly sticky with a few strands of webbing. There was more in his hair, standing out against the black. He blinked and looked at her. "We need to come back inside," he said, putting a hand on her uninjured shoulder, steering her back toward the house.

She let herself be steered, scowling blackly ahead of her. Then she shook her head, brushing her hair back from the bandage around her head and blinking. "I'm not sure what I just did. I've never been so... _furious_ before. And he wasn't even _saying_ anything. Just something about him, the way he fights, or dodges, or the colors, or _something_..."

"You know, sometimes listening to you is like listening to my own thoughts. I've thought on this occasionally, and I think it is because he manages to dodge almost everything one throws at him, so to speak. That wretched precognition of his, I suppose. And, yes, that red and blue is painful to look at sometimes." Like he was one to talk, having, at one point in his career, clad himself in green and orange spandex and a white labcoat, the end result bringing to mind the image of a bowl of sherbet with four very odd spoons stuck into it. Still, it wasn't as ... _impertinent _as Spider-man's red and blue.

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him sideways. "Even your old costume hurt less. I'm just - " She shrugged and broke off, hissing.

They were inside by now, and Octavius pulled the doors shut behind them. He steered Clair toward the couch and had her sit, fingers probing carefully at her shoulder.

She watched the wall past him, her face set. "He fights dirty, but I don't think he broke anything new, just unset it. How is your head?"

"It's all right," he replied, positioning one hand on her back and the other under her arm and quickly pushing her shoulder back into place.

She couldn't keep from crying out slightly when he did this, her good hand shooting up to grab his arm. The noise was disturbing. "Maybe... maybe we should wait to continue the experiment. I think I'm a liability like this."

"Do you feel that would be best?" he asked, looking down at her, noticing how pale she had gone and the way her actuators curled inward instinctively.

Reluctantly, she nodded. "I've never been in this much pain before. It's a distraction, and as the bug proved, I can't afford that. I could mess everything up."

He sat on the couch next to her and looked about the room. "All right, then," he nodded. "Perhaps you ought."

"Hate this," she remarked, leaning against him. "Hate feeling this weak, this broken. Spent my whole life trying to convince people that I am not as delicate as I look, and one little fall and I prove myself wrong."

"You fell five stories," he pointed out. "You're lucky to be alive, really."

"I am, I suppose," she agreed, but she was still frowning. "Six weeks, two months at the most, and I'll be ready to start again." She looked up at the screens across the room, which still displayed the bug's scans. "He had better hope that someone kills him before then, because when I get him back down here, I am going to drill a very large hole in his head and do my examinations the old-fashioned way."

Octavius smiled at this, leaning in to kiss her neck. "You know I find you irresistible when you talk like that," he murmured against her skin, but stayed still after that, head leaned against hers, as he gazed in front of them at nothing in particular.

That made her smile. "I'm afraid you must resist," she teased gently, playing with his hair and looking around her lab. There was debris everywhere; broken machinery sparking here and there. They had managed to miss the important things, but it would still take ages to clean up and rebuild. And she had to get that table down from where it was stuck, half through the ceiling. And replace the broken window. And her centrifuge. She reached out two actuators to shift a pile of broken stuff, and swore at what she found underneath. "He broke my Tesla scanner. Wonderful."

Octavius gave it a glance. "Mh," he said. His own actuators sifted through the wreckage, righting things. "This experiment would have been delayed anyway," he muttered, looking at the destroyed centrifuge and the damaged microscope array. Under an upturned table and a pile of scattered tools, he found the box which held the wetware control array. "Ah," he said, looking inside it. "He didn't even realize this was here." A smirk crossed his face.

"It's not broken, is it?" she asked, shifting to see it better. "The scanner's replaceable, that's not."

One actautor claw tip poked the foam padding that filled up the majority of the box while another carefully plucked the tiny piece of technology from it. "This padding kept it from being damaged."

"That's good," she said, lifting herself off the couch. "I can't wait to see what that will do for your actuators. The bug won't know what hit him."

"That is the plan," Octavius chuckled, carefully placing the array back in the box and putting it aside. He looked about the room. "In the meantime, we've a lot of cleaning to do."

* * *

Martin had just come in to drop off a file she had forgotten, but the light in their office was on. She poked her head around the door frame and saw Hanover, and scowled at him. "It's bad enough you're here at all, but you're working late? The doc told you to take it easy, Brian."

"I'm fine," Hanover replied curtly. He appeared to be scrutinising a map of the city, tracing and logging possible routes, another map up on his computer screen, which bore a small collection of red dots marking places in the city and its surrounding area.

She came over and looked at the map. "I can't believe they got away with an MRI and nobody saw them. It's not like they're inconspicuous. Especially now that there's two of them." She shook her head. "That Dr. Holmes is just as mad as Octavius. Worse. He got the arms through an accident. To voluntarily choose them..."

"Holmes can still be turned back," Hanover muttered. "You're right. They weren't seen at all." He looked at a copy of that day's Bugle. The newspaper's headline shouted, OCK AND OCKETTE HIT HOSPITAL. Under that was a sub-header reading SPIDER-MAN CONSPICUOUSLY ABSENT. And under that was an artist's rendering of Holmes, complete with tentacles and a very Octavian scowl. Hanover pushed the paper toward her. "No-one stated where they went beyond 'east.' So I'm plotting possible destinations."

"No one's seen Spider-Man in days," she said, taking the paper and reading the article, which was filled with vague and improbable "facts." She made a sound of disgust. "Does Jameson ever check his facts?" she thought aloud, then looked back at his map.

"Of course he doesn't," Hanover replied. "That would destroy the Bugle's reputation of yellow journalism at its finest." He squinted at the map. "No one saw them. The only place that could possibly happen would be in a residential district," he mused.

"Res districts are too heavily populated," she argued. "Even if they could sneak in every now and then, someone would certainly notice Doc Ock as their next door neighbor."

"You don't talk to your neighbors, much, do you, Martin?" Hanover said, looking up at her. "A residential area is the perfect place to hide because people refuse to believe they could possibly have a supervillain for a neighbor. It's too ridiculous. So they don't notice. Ock's done it before and it looks like he's doing it again."

"If that's true, then what do we do to find them? A door-to-door search? Draw up warrants for every home in New York? Or just wait for them to come out again?"

"Trace power consumption numbers," he replied, turning to his computer and accessing the power company's database. "We chart the position of houses with the highest energy consumption level and stake out the most likely location."

She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. "Why didn't I think of that? The MRI alone will take up more power than your average city block, not to mention whatever else they have."

"Something you learn with experience," Hanover smirked. After a moment, he sat back and scrutinised the results of the search, cross-referencing them with addresses and the courses he'd plotted on the map. He leaned forward again, a somewhat disturbing grin crossing his features. "I think I've narrowed it down," he said.

She leaned forward to look at the screen, shooting him a glance. "You're going to go after him again, aren't you?"

"Nobody else has even come close to finding him. What do you think?" Hanover replied. A printer whirred to life, printing out his list of locations.

"I know. I'm coming with you, but I just want my protest to be on record. If this breaks in our faces and you go down for it, I'm not losing my job. That said, where do we start?"

"98504 West Twelfth," Hanover replied, reading off the first address. He stood, grabbing his coat and shrugging it on over his underarm holster, and placed his hat on his bandaged head. "Let's go."

A short time later, the two sat parked in front of 98504, staring up at it, grateful for tinted windows. Even so, Martin wished she had her sunglasses. "That many Christmas lights should be against the law."

Hanover squinted at the house. "It's effective cover--" he started.

Martins looked at him crookedly. "You can not be serious. Doc Ock, in that house? He may be insane, but he's not that far gone. The man's lucifugus, Brian, he'd go blind. I'm about to myself. No, this is just the wrong house. How many more do you have on that list?

Hanover grumbled something about snap decisions and unfolded his list from his pocket. "The next address is 16 Icon Lane, on Roosevelt Island." He glanced out the window again. "It would have been unexpected, but maybe you're right," he observed.

Martins started the car and drove on, heading for the bridge. "I'm sure that house gets people knocking all day to admire the lights and all night to ask them to turn them off. Hardly an ideal lair."

16 Icon Lane was a pleasant little house with a big yard and a giant dog tethered out front. Martin eyed it warily. "After you, sir."

Hanover examined the surroundings and the complacent canine. There was a shaded area under which they could park and still see the house, so he pointed it out, instructing her to drive the car round so that it could park in said space and they could watch the house. Parked, Martin looked around the property skeptically. "This doesn't really look like the place. A dog? Octavius doesn't seem the sort."

"That's what he'd want us to think," Hanover replied, sitting back and settling in to watch the house.

Martin sat up, watching the half-curtained windows at the front of the house. "There's someone in there. A woman, looks like."

Hanover reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a pair of binoculars. Raising them to his eyes, he trained them on the window, gazing through them into the shadowy interior. The woman in question could have been Holmes, if she'd gained about forty pounds and six inches overnight. She was moving around what must be the kitchen, her mouth open as she yelled to someone they couldn't see.

"Maybe he's gone back to collecting women," Hanover muttered, still staring into the window.

Martin checked through her own binoculars, sighing. "I think you're reaching, Brian. Look, there's even a swingset in the back."

He scowled heavily. "Damn," he muttered. He tossed the binoculars onto the dashboard and fished out his list again. "What the hell could they have been using all that electricity on, anyway?"

"That's their business," said Martin shortly, trying to tame her hair, which was making a serious effort to rise on end for no reason at all. "It's not a crime, just expensive. What's the next address?"

Hanover consulted the paper. "Second and East 82nd, on the upper east side. I think it's near Shurz Park." One last glance at the house showed him a child running out the door to glomp the dog. He sighed.

"He may collect women," she said, backing out of her parking space. "But I really can't see him taking on kids, can you? No matter what the Bugle said this morning." Back over the bridge and into East Side, following the river front past the wooded park. It was a quiet neighborhood, full of dignified, attached, two-story houses with narrow streetfronts.

"What's the address?" she asked, looking down the road. The area had class, but it had seen better times. Several of the houses sported boarded up windows and missing shingles."201," Hanover replied, and pointed. "Right up there."

Number 201 was not one of the dilapidated buildings, and the windows shone warmly, a new VW Bug parked in front. Martin drove around into the narrow alley in back to see it from that angle as well. A garbage bin sat neatly on the curb. All plainly mundane. "How many more addresses do you have on the list?" she started to ask, but then she saw the broken lamppost across the alley. Snapped cleanly off at the foot and left to lay along the lane. And the house _next _to 201 had a window broken out in its basement, from the inside by the look of the glass lying outside it. "Look at that," she pointed out quietly to Hanover, pulling past the house and stopping a little way down the alley.

"No lightning strike could have done that to that lamppost," Hanover mused. "No drunk driver, either. I think we might have our house." He peered at it, seeing the windows all had the shades drawn.

"And there's a delivery door to the basement. They could have gotten the MRI in through that. I wouldn't put it past Octavius to route his power usage through the house next door, either." She looked more closely at the door. "That's been damaged recently. See, clamp marks, right where you'd grab it to open it. This has to be the place."

Hanover squinted at the building. "Found you, you bastard," he growled.

"And now what?" said Martin, staring at the house. "Let's go back to the bureau, get back-up."

Hanover stared at her and it was evident that he was waging something of a war in his mind. His objective was _right there_, just inside that house. And yet there was the reality that he'd never be able to do anything against two individuals with actuators. He sighed. "I guess you're right. We're gonna need backup."

Relieved, because she'd seen his desire to just charge in there and wage war with his own personal demon, Martin put the car back in gear and headed back out into the city, back downtown to the Bureau.


	6. Arrested

Unreasonable Addiction III

Chapter 6: Arrested

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth

"I'm going to need backup," Hanover said by way of preamble as he walked into his superior's office. "We've triangulated his location at a house on 82nd on the Upper East Side. We'll need as many as can be spared to meet at this location."

Captain Valencia looked at Hanover over the rim of his coffee cup, lifted one eyebrow, and set it down. "Who's location?"

"Octavius," Hanover replied, pulling the list of addresses out of his pocket. "We need to strike quickly while he and Holmes are still distracted with doing whatever it is they're doing with that MRI they just stole."

"Where's Beck?" he asked, steepling his fingers in front of him and watching Hanover patiently.

"Whj..." Hanover stuttered. "Beck's ... at the same known location, probably recovering from his last fight with Spider-man," Hanover replied, little less than confidently.

"Your assignment is Quentin Beck, if I remember right," said Valencia smoothly, opening a drawer and pulling out a file. "Why are you bringing me information on Octavius, who is Morris and Miller's assignment, when you haven't even managed to bring in your own?"

"Because they wouldn't be able to bring him in if he stopped and asked them for directions to the prison!" Hanover replied heatedly.

"And how does this make Octavius your responsibility?" Valencia sat back, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "I'm dying to hear this logic."

"You _know_ I'm the only one here who's negotiated a hostage situation with Octavius! I know how he thinks! No-one else has come as close to understanding his motives and tactics as I have!"

"Calm down, Hanover," said Valencia patiently, holding out his hand. "Let's see what you got. But I don't have the resources right now to go in and dig Octavius out of his own turf."

Hanover pushed the slip of paper with the address on it across the desk. "I've visually ID'ed the house, too," he said.

"Did you see him?" Valencia asked, checking the paper, and looking up the address on his computer. "That building's listed as derelict."

"It's theorized that he's diverting power from the house next door on the west side. Also, there was a broken lamppost outside the house with what looked like claw marks at the break site. And a basement window was smashed outward." Hanover was starting to get a little impatient with this kind of doubt.

Valencia looked up. "Did you see Otto Octavius at this location, Hanover? Simple question."

"No--" Hanover started.

The captain scowled. "You bring me a broken window, power-use, and a snapped lamp-post and want a task force? What kind of fool do you take me for, Hanover?"

"I'd only take you for a fool if you didn't listen to me on this! He's there, I know it! The curtains are all drawn to keep out the light! We need to get to him now before he puts his next plan into motion! We need to get Holmes out of there before--"

"Before what, Hanover! All witnesses say she's acting of her own free will. Hell, even your partner supports that theory. She's been with him for a year now, she's still alive. His danger to her is _not _a priority. Now, if you have any more concrete evidence, I'd like to hear it."

Hanover fell silent, breathing heavily through his nose. "This is all I have, sir," he finally said, sounding as though getting the words out was only slightly easier than pulling teeth.

Valencia sighed. "You're a good agent, Hanover, but this fixation on Octavius is interfering with your duties. I can give you surveillance for the address until you have more proof. How does that sound?"

Hanover sighed, deflating, and nodded. Obsessed as he was, he knew defeat when he saw it. His drive hadn't quite yet completely eroded his respect for the chain of command. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"And I'm taking you off the Beck case. You and Martin can work with Morris and Miller on the Octavius case, but _they're _in charge of it. Remember that." He fixed him with a stern glance. "If you have any information, make sure they get it."

"Yes, sir," Hanover said, dropping his gaze. Inwardly, he knew he would do no such thing, but appearances had to be maintained. "Thank you sir."

"Well, what are you doing standing around here? Go on, get." He shooed the agent away, returning dismissively to his paperwork. Hanover turned and left the office, making his way back to his own, where Martin sat, pouring over yet more paperwork.

"How'd it go?" she asked, looking up. "Valencia give us the National Guard and a battalion of tanks?"

"Funny," Hanover growled. He dropped into his chair. "No, he said all he could give us was surveillance on the house. But at least he's taken us off that pointless Beck case. We'll be _assisting _Miller and Morris on the Octavius case."

She sighed, pushing away the paperwork from in front of her, all of which had to do with that pointless Beck case. "Lovely. Surveillance. That means nights trying to stay awake in the car staring at a house until my head hurts. And working with Miller... egh. The man is unbearable. Did he ever try to tell you about his stand-off against Venom? It's no wonder his eyes are brown."

"If it gets Octavius behind bars, it's worth it," Hanover grunted.

"Thought you'd say that," she sighed, pushing herself back from her desk. "Let's go find them, hash out a schedule or something."

"Might as well, we'll get it all done quicker," Hanover agreed, standing and heading out of the office, Martin behind him.

* * *

Clair sighed in satisfaction as the cast came off her leg, leaving it straight and whole, if woefully skinny and pale. It had been nearly two months since the bug's escape, and she had spent the time frustrated by her lack of mobility. If it weren't for her actuators, she would have gone quite mad. As it was, she was itching to get out of the house.

At the other end of the room, Octavius appeared not to notice that sigh, absorbed in finishing the repairs to the Tesla scanner. The lab had been returned to more or less the same state it had been in before Spider-man had been held there, the scanners and microscopes and tools repaired, the centrifuge replaced. In a corner lay the half-finished work being done on the wetware control array, the series of tiny fringed chips now bristling with nanowire containers.

Carefully, with the help of her actuators, she stood up, then lifted them from the ground. The leg shook slightly, but held her weight. She walked over to his side, a little unevenly. "How's it coming?" she asked, waiting for him to notice.

Not looking up, he sighed. "Almost finished. The arachnid had done extensive damage to it, after all. You might need to thump it a few times, but at least it'll work," he finished, a grim satisfaction in his tone.

Rolling her eyes patiently, she peered closer. "I need to find a way to lock my equipment to the walls if I'm going to play host to people like him." She looked down, undoing the clasp of her harness so that the actuators fell away, wincing as usual at the withdrawal.

He finally looked up at the snapping sounds and the tiny gasp. Granted, he'd become used to her wandering about topless, but she didn't take her actuators off much. He looked down and spotted the reason after a moment. "Ah," he said.

She smiled. "Look, no actuators." She grabbed a shirt from its hook on the wall and pulled it on, holding it clear of the pinpricks on her back, then letting it settle.

"Mmm," he said, watching her button her shirt. "And a good thing, too. I was starting to tire of you moaning about being cooped up and having to hang from those arms all day," he said, a wry smile on his lips.

"I do not moan," she protested, giving him a shove. Her arm had come out of its cast two weeks ago, and looked more or less normal already.

"Oh, yes you do," he replied. "A lot. _Oh, I'm tired of this. Oh, this is intolerable. If I knock this thing against the wall one more time, so help me that wall is _gone You cannot tell me you don't moan," he replied, a wolfish grin on his features. He caught her wrist as she made to push him again and pulled her closer to him, his arm curling around her waist.

"Well, it is gone, isn't it? I like having the living room and kitchen in the same room." She grinned up at him, running her hand up his arm. "Almost as much as I like having that bloody cast off. And you know what the first thing I'm going to do is?" she said, running her fingers through his hair.

"Do tell," he said, leaning in so close that she could feel his breath against her skin. He stayed there for a moment, breathing softly against her neck.

She twisted out of his grasp, smirking. "I'm going to go take a shower." She got halfway to the door before turning back. "Join me? I haven't had a shower in ages. I'm tired of bathing with my leg in a plastic bag."

She smiled and turned slightly so she could kiss him, closing her eyes briefly before pulling back, running her hand down his arm to catch his hand, tangling her fingers with his, and drawing him towards the stairs.

He shook his head at the thought of being led by the hand, but followed her up the stairs and through the house to the bathroom, closing the door behind them when they entered.

The water heater's supply had been exhausted before either was ready to leave the shower. Otto reluctantly turned off the taps and let Clair step around him onto the tile floor. He reached out for a towel, wrapping it around her, and slowly rubbed her dry from behind her, nose against her neck and hair.

She twisted around with a towel of her own, rubbing his hair into a half-dry mess before draping it around his shoulders and using it to pull him closer for a kiss. He almost looked ... unassuming, there, his hair a nebulous black cloud around his face and neck, eyes half open, the towel draped over his shoulders.

The room was still warm, humid, and dark, the only light what filtered in through the tinted window. "You've gone all fluffy," she murmured, amused. "Hardly appropriate for a rogue such as yourself."

"Mmhmhm," he chuckled, his arms tightening around her and his lips now against her neck. "It's all about deception, you know," he murmured into her neck. "Why else do you think I wore that bowl-cut for so long?"

"I just thought you trusted your barber a little too much. But I have a question for you," she said somberly, her hands drifting down to either side of his ribs, fingers splayed, just barely touching his skin. She tried to keep a straight face, but mischief was plain in her eyes.

"Mmmm. Something to do with a pair of scissors and at least four mirrors comes to memory," he replied. He pulled his head back and looked at her, fingers in her hair. "What question is that?" he finished, amused by the mischief in her eyes.

"Are you ticklish?"

This brought him up short, and he blinked. "No, I'm not," he stated maybe a little too definitely.

She smiled maybe a little too broadly, and attacked, her fingers scrabbling gently at his ribs, down his sides, laughing madly.

He snerked and convulsed, spluttering loudly, grabbing for her hands, which managed to slip out of his grip anyway, and ducking backward.

She followed, giggling, and continued her attack, pressing him up against the sink where he couldn't escape. "Haha, you'll never escape me!" she growled playfully. "Completely at my mercy."

"Gaheh! _Snrk_! And you..." he managed while twitching and stuttering and laughing wheezily, "should remember--pfhh--that Doctor Octopus is at _no-one's_ mercy!" he grinned, catching her wrists and holding them with one hand while wiggling the fingers of the other against her ribs. "I've known your tickle weakness for a long time," he replied, still grinning.

"Gah!" she spluttered, twisting and trying to get away. "No fair! Nehehe! No fair, you're -ngth- twice as big as I am!"

He merely grinned wolfishly at her and released her hands, both hands now attacking her ribs, until they landed on the floor in a giggling and snerking heap.

She wrapped her arms around her chest, still laughing slightly. "And it's not fair that I didn't get a cool super villain name. How in the world am I supposed to show my face as ..." She finished the sentence with a dismissive flick of her fingers, not even willing to voice the awful pseudonym that the Bugle had bestowed upon her after the hospital affair. Jameson had a lot to answer for.

He curled around her, nuzzling under her jaw, and chuckled. "All I need is five more of you and I'd have my own kick-line," he murmured.

She punched him for that, softly in the shoulder. "Don't even consider that." She clenched her eyes shut and groaned. "I can just picture it: Doc Ock, the Musical. By Andrew Lloyd Webber."

He snerked at that. "Appalling," he said, his lips under her ear. "Dreadful choruses of people in spandex."

"No, trench coats," she corrected, her fingers idly combing his hair. "He's already done one in spandex."

He lay next to her, lips occasionally kissing her neck or shoulder or cheek. "I don't think I want to know," he said. "The spandex I'm already surrounded by offends me enough."

"_Cats _isn't quite as offensive as the bug," she mused. "But only because no one from _its_ cast has put me _in_ a cast."

"Oh, I've heard some dreadful stories about those dancers," he murmured, kissing her ear. "Terrorists, the lot of them."

"In that case, should I audition?" she smirked, sitting up and stretching. The tile floor was slightly cold as a place to lie.

"What, for _Cats?_" he asked, still lying on the floor and looking up at her.

"Mmhmm," she nodded, standing up and wrapping her skirt around her waist, ignoring the damp spots where water had been dripped or splashed. "Terrorists who can dance, I'd be a shoe-in."

He stood as well, toweling himself off the rest of the way and locating his boxers and pants. "I'll have to come lurk in the back of the theatre and watch you," he said, leaning down and kissing her again.

"Are you kidding?" she said, kissing him back. "If I audition, so do you. You'd make a wonderful MacCavity."

"I don't sing," he replied, pulling on his boxers, and still holding his pants in his hand.

"That's probably the only non-singing role in the play," she pointed out, unable to stop the ridiculous line of thought. "You'd just lurk in the back for the most part, look terrifying, and steal the show. '_For he's the master criminal, who can defy the law_,'" she sang briefly. "See, the perfect role for you." She picked up her shirt and looked at it, but it was too wet to put back on.

He curled an arm around her and opened the door, an amused smile on his face. "You," he said, leading her out of the bathroom, "need to lie down."

"No," she said, just realizing this. "I need to eat. I think my blood sugar level's down in the lab, while I'm all the way up here."

He had to admit, food sounded like a good idea, now that she mentioned it. "Oh very well," he sighed. "You eat and then lie down, because you're obviously suffering terrible delusions," he finished, putting his arms around her and waking her toward the kitchen.

She snagged her sweater as they passed their bedroom, pulling it on and ignoring the holes in the back. "I'm just being silly, is all. It's allowed every now and then." She pulled out of his arms as they entered the kitchen, opening cupboards and finding... nothing. There was no food in the kitchen at all, save an unopened jar of pickles in the back of the fridge. Leaning against the fridge door, Clair looked over her shoulder at Otto. "You have to be the only man alive who eats himself out of house and home."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh?" he drawled. "And who devoured the entire stock of those pocket things in the space of three days?" He leaned against the doorframe, clad only in his trousers.

She blinked at that. "Did I really? How long ago was that?" She vaguely remembered repeated trips from the freezer to the microwave during a long session of calculating a possible deviation in the effects of the ZJ, but it couldn't have been enough to finish off the little pasties. They'd laid in a rather large supply.

"It wasn't long after we got them," he replied, walking up behind her and peering into the refrigerator as well. He poked her middle. "You simply never pay attention to how much you graze on while you're working."

She poked him back. "You should talk. I may have eaten the pockets, but who ate the entire case of bagles, _and_ all the cream cheese? And an entire _shipment_ of oreos. And the spaghetti, and _my_ leftover pizza, and..."

"Your point?" he asked, leaning in further, eyebrows raised, one hand pushing her hand away from his middle.

She poked his bare stomach again, tickling slightly. "And the hoagies. My point is, we need food."

"Hmph," he said, frowning at the pickles, while once again removing her finger from his middle. "I suppose I ought to go and get us some more, then," he sighed.

She shook her head. "I haven't been out of this house in two months, Otto. The two of us together would draw attention, and I'm not just going to sit here while you go. No, I'm just going to walk down to that little store on the other side of the park and buy enough to make us dinner. By myself, I shouldn't be recognized. Anything you're hungry for in particular?"

He sighed, looking at the curtained window. "Hmm. I suppose no-one would notice you." A pause and then he shrugged. "You mentioned spaghetti," he said.

She nodded. "That sounds good. I won't be gone long." She picked up her coat, not the long one that she'd worn to the hospital, but a shorter black one that wouldn't make her look too much like her cover shot on the Bugle, even if that was two months past. Checking that her wallet was in its pocket, she pulled on her hat and gloves and headed for the door.

He walked after her to the door. "Be quick. There's less risk that way."

"I will," she assured him, lingering for a moment to kiss him on the cheek. "Don't worry. I'll be right back." She opened the door, braced herself a moment against the nasty, wet, late-January wind, and headed out into the thickening dusk.

* * *

Hanover leaned back in the driver's seat of the car, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He sighed. "I almost don't wanna know what they've been doing in there all this time," he muttered.  
Martin rolled her shoulders, easing them. It seemed by now that she lived in this car. Stakeouts four, five nights a week, always just sitting here, watching a house that never-- She sat up suddenly as the front door opened, the first sign of activity at all in two months, and a slim figure slipped out and turned left, heading down the street in the direction of the park. She poked Hanover. "It's Holmes!" she exclaimed quietly.

"Bwuh!" he said, his eyes flying open. Sure enough, a woman easily recognizable as Holmes walked down the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of her jacket. He turned and watched her, waiting to see where she went.

Sitting forward, Martin watched her. "Still a little bit of a limp, it's definitely her. Should we follow on foot?"

Oblivious, Holmes walked on, her face tucked into the collar of her jacket, shoulders hunched against the cold.

Hanover eyed her, then his gaze traveled to the small grocery that lay a block and a half away. "No-one's been in or out for two months. She'll probably go into that store for food, I'm guessing."

Martin looked back at the house, which remained unchanged. "We could intercept her there, then. Do you think he's watching?"

Squinting at the store, Hanover thought on it for a second. He shook his head. "Can't see the store from there," he finally said. "We'd be able to wait outside it."

"Let's go, then," she said, putting her coffee in the cup holder. "We don't need back-up for just Holmes, but if he shows up, we aren't going through with this by ourselves," she said, looking levelly at Hanover.

"Then let's nab her quickly," Hanover replied, starting the car. He pulled out from their space and drove around the block, pulling into the store's small parking lot more or less in time to see Holmes disappear through its door. He put it in park but left the engine on, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and waiting.

Through the window, Martin could see Clair browsing, a little rushed, selecting what looked like pasta, sauce, and cheese. She kept her head down as she looked at the newspapers in the rack next to the door, then selected two and paid the shopkeeper for her purchases. "She's coming out, let's go," she said when Clair picked up her two paper bags, her hand on the shop's door handle.

Hanover pushed his door open and stood, walking round the car at more or less the same time as Holmes walked out of the store.

"Doctor Clair Holmes," he said as she stepped clear of the door. "You are under arrest for assaulting a law enforcement officer and aiding and abetting a known felon." He stepped toward her, clearly meaning to take hold of her.

Her head snapped up at his words, eyes wide, then angry behind the glasses. "Agent _Hand_over," she said icily, shifting her grip on her groceries. "This is a surprise. An unpleasant one."

His professional dignity frayed at that. "It's _Hanover,"_ he corrected. "I suggest you come quietly, Doctor Holmes."

Her gaze shifted, looking behind them both, then came back to him. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

"Unfortunately, it's not all the same to me," he replied, and strode forward, aiming to grab her arms.

She backed up a step and threw her groceries at him, aiming high, then dodged to the side away from Martin, making for the park behind them. Hanover dodged the flying food items and took off in a run after Holmes as she tried to flee across the parking lot, easily catching up behind her.

She dodged sideways as he was about to grab her, and ran straight into Martin, knocking them both over. Martin wrapped her arms around the smaller woman, pinning her arms to her sides as she kicked. "Help me with her!" she growled as Holmes snapped her head back, bruising her cheek.

Hanover reached into the fray, grabbing Holmes and rolling her onto her stomach, pinning her arms behind her back. He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a set of handcuffs, clipping onto Holmes' wrists. "You are under arrest for assaulting a law enforcement officer and aiding and abetting a known felon. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, you have the right to an attorney..." Hanover recited, pulling Holmes up from the pavement.

"You won't hold me, you know," Holmes said, looking up at him though her hair, which had fallen over her face. "As soon as Otto finds out I'm not coming back, he'll come for me." Her voice was cold enough to make Martin uneasy. "And then you'll die for this."

"He'll have to find us, first, Doctor Holmes," Hanover replied, pulling her toward the car. "And I sincerely doubt he'd survive the attempt."

"He's survived everything the law has ever thrown at him," she said defiantly. "You won't even pose an obstacle."

"We'll see, Doctor Holmes," Hanover replied, pushing her into the car. "This time, we're prepared."

"Oh, please tell me your master plan, Agent Handover," she said sarcastically, ducking her head and getting in. "I'm sure it will work wonderfully, so long as he doesn't have a sword and a hostage." She smiled darkly out at him from the back seat of the car.

"Your loyalty is touching," Hanover muttered, pulling out of the parking lot and starting down the street.

"Are you sure you have the situation right this time?" she pressed, shifting to get more comfortable. "After all, you could be missing an important detail, like you did last time. Maybe we've got Spider-Man on our side, or maybe Otto is really _my_ hostage. Or maybe I'm the distraction, to draw you two off so he can give you the slip."

"We'll take that eventuality when it comes," came the stony reply as they drove past the house, which sat as quietly as it did before.

She watched the house go by, falling silent. As it was left behind them, she turned and stared at the back of Hanover's head. Her expression was unreadable, and Martin wasn't sure she'd want to be able to read it. "He will hunt you down, you know. You don't have a chance."

"As long as we get him where he belongs, it doesn't matter if I'm hunted or not," Hanover replied. "You'll see that eventually."

She shifted again, sighing impatiently. "So, where are you taking me?"

"We'll be holding you in the precinct jail until you can be transported to federal prison."

"Federal for assault?" she mused. "Seems a little harsh to me."

"Federal for aiding and abetting a terrorist."

"Hmm. Makes sense. That'll be Riker's, then?"

"Probably, why all the questions?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Information is a way to keep control of the situation. Something I'm sure you've learned since we first met."

"Knowing these things won't grant you any control of this situation at all," Hanover replied a little irritably. The vague thought that she was somehow relaying this information to Octavius flitted through his mind, but he dismissed it as ridiculous. How would she be able to do that?

"That remains to be seen," she said easily, though Martin thought she heard a tension not quite hidden. "But it's better than knowing nothing and making assumptions, isn't it? Instinct can be so easily fooled..." She shrugged her shoulder up to scratch her half-ear absently, shooting Martin a glance. "Your partner's an idiot, you know. It just makes things easier."

Hanover bristled at that, but said nothing.

Holmes shifted again. It wasn't comfortable to ride in a car with your hands cuffed behind your back. "I can't help but wonder what would have happened if we'd had a _competent_ hostage negotiator in Seattle last year. You took some pretty stupid risks, Handover. Shooting the target when he's got a sword at the hostage's head? You could have gotten me killed, which I thought was entirely against the point."

Martin turned to look forward again. Apparently, Holmes meant to provoke Hanover all the way back to the precinct.

Hanover's teeth gritted and he took a deep breath. "One does one's _job,_ Doctor Holmes. I saw an opening, I took it. And don't think that I'm going to rise to your childish baiting."

"One does one's job, Agent Handover," she replied sweetly, but then she was quiet, merely watching out the window.

"Sir," Martin said in a low voice as the precinct came into view. "If Octavius does come for her, this place isn't secure enough."

"I know that," he replied, sighing again. "But we have to follow procedure on this. Otherwise someone will find some damned loophole and she'll go right back to him. We just have to hope that Octavius won't know where we've taken her."

Martin heard a small _snerk_ from the back seat. She sighed and aired a concern of hers. "Well, how many precincts are there in this city?" she asked rhetorically. "He's got no way of knowing which one, as long as we can keep the press out of this."

"Hopefully there are enough," Hanover replied, glaring murderously into the rearview mirror.

Holmes merely watched the scenery flow past out the window, one corner of her mouth twisted up.

"We'll push her through the transfer as fast as we can," Martin said firmly.

"It's all we can do," Hanover grumbled. He lapsed into silence as he drove, fuming thoughts roiling in his head.

* * *

The first thing that he thought of was the sudden peace and quiet. For the first time in two months, the house held only him--no music, no sounds of someone else's machinery running, someone else's actuators, someone else's footsteps, someone else's voice. The peace and quiet he'd lived in for so long before all this had started. He'd enjoyed it before Clair. He'd enjoyed the distance from other human beings, the sanctuary from their noise and their light and the very _presence_ of teeming humanity that threatened to choke and bury him in its own overwhelming, stifling, animal existence. He'd thought even one person in his life, in his space, would be too much. He hadn't even thought of sharing that space with anyone since Stunner. It simply hadn't occurred to him, drowned by an almost instinctive revulsion toward anything human; anything living, breathing, creating sound and presence and heat that served only to combine with his own and make it unbearable.

But the next thing he thought of was that Clair somehow didn't do that. It could have been nothing more than a psychological association with the salubrious affects of her restorative serum, but there was something about her that cleared his thoughts, that cooled them. Like her name implied, she somehow brought clearness... clarity. She reminded him of clear, cool water that one drank deeply of, feeling one's insides washed clean, calmed and freed of weariness. Her very presence caused him to slow, to consider, for his mind to experience reactions other than murderous rage or manic paranoia. He'd found himself laughing more. He'd found himself actually sleeping the night through, curled around something small and fragile and breathing softly. He found himself never wanting to lose that little bit of peace.

And the next thing he thought of was just what he'd do to keep that little bit of peace, that factor so insignificant as another human being that somehow kept him holding onto a measure of sanity. He would steal, he would kill, and those were things that were not new to him at all, but the motivation was. He couldn't concretely, with any detail, remember a motivation like that, even though he knew academically that he would have walked the world over to get a blade of grass that Angelina Brancale might have wanted, there wasn't this same desire to _protect_ like that which burned in the back of his mind now. Stunner had been able to take care of herself, after all, capable girl like her. Not the brightest thing, Stunner, but possessed of such a loyal and beautiful soul that it hadn't mattered. He'd had faith in her. And now he had a completely different kind of faith in Clair. A faith that she would keep him sane and he would keep her safe. A symbiotic relationship that went so much more dangerously deep than his partnership with Stunner. He and Stunner had simply embraced the concept of togetherness in everything. Clair, however, had a mysterious hold on him. In her presence he had changed. And he'd thought it was a good change--a change that meant he listened to the reasonable part of his mind more often, a change that maybe meant he wasn't quite so spattered with other people's blood. A change that meant the terrible heat in his blood and the boiling in his brain was cooled, that he could breathe and think again. But a change nonetheless.

The next thing he thought of was that he had, indeed, been changed. He'd decided a long time ago that no-one would change him. No-one would have a hold on him, no-one would _control_ him, however subtly, in however small a way. Control of one aspect of an individual was control of that _entire_ individual. He was in control of himself--he had been in control of himself and his own destiny ever since he'd finally freed himself of his mother's overbearing emotional blackmail and soul-draining _neediness_. He'd decided that no-one would ever do that to him again and yet now he found himself once again with nothing more than that crawling need to ensure someone else's happiness so that it would, in turn ensure his own. It was unconscionable. It would not be allowed. He would take his life and his soul and his mind back.

But the thought he had after that was that he couldn't do that. She was too instrumental. Too important. She had worked her way so far into his life and he'd grown so accustomed to having her there that he was absolutely certain that it would fall apart again with out her there. Damnit, he'd come to _rely_ on someone else for something so simple as _sanity.  
_

But there was more. There was a ... stirring of something else than a simple realization of a need to have someone or something there for his own benefit. Granted, he knew she wouldn't be able to take care of herself on her own in the world she'd jumped feet-first into. He _had_ to be there to protect her from the arachnid, from the other villains, from the unknown elements that came out of no-where to upset everything. He hadn't been able to protect himself and he hadn't been able to save Stunner, but he wasn't going to allow defeat of this nature a third time. He had to keep Clair safe because of his pride, because he needed her with him... because, maybe hiding within all those other motivations was a kind of affection. The kind of affection that caused him to listen to her breathing as she slept beside him, that made him stop and watch her while she worked tirelessly at her serum, to notice the fall of her hair across her neck or the angle of her shoulders or her eyelashes as they half-covered her eyes. The kind of affection that permeated the physical need he had for her and caused him to play with her before and hold her after.

So the next thought he had was a realization. He couldn't let her control him. He couldn't let her go. So the only thing there was left for it was to take back control. She was his. There was no other option, no other alternative. Whatever hold she had on him would exist only because he allowed it and would be _nothing_ compared to the hold he had on her. It was the only way this situation could possibly continue.

And the next thought he had was that it didn't take a person an hour to pick up five items at a grocery. This realization stopped him, stopped the pacing and he fell still, his actuators fell still, and the sudden nasty thought that she had been accosted in some fashion came to him. He covered the distance to the door in three long strides and yanked it open, expecting to see her maybe waylaid by a gregarious neighbor or playing with a dog or something equally as foolish but relieving in its mundanity.

She was nowhere to be seen.

And neither was the car that he'd occasionally glimpsed outside, across the street, always in the same place. He'd simply thought it'd belonged to the people who'd lived in that house until the sudden wave of memory that the house was abandoned hit him.

He cursed loudly, actuators flailing and taking out chunks of the doorframe. How could he have been so _stupid!_ That car hadn't belonged to the people across the street. It had sat there every day, in the exact same place, for months and now it was _gone_, and Clair was gone and there was only one explanation.

Hanover.

The arachnid must have tipped him to this location. That weasel had been on a stake out ever _since,_ and he hadn't noticed! He slammed the door shut again with enough force to knock things from the walls and stalked through the house to retrieve his goggles and long-coat. Buttoning it, twitched his actuators through the holes and a last thought came to him before he left, actuators carrying him down the street and up the nearest tall building -- Hanover would pay. And Clair would learn what came of distracting him.


	7. Endangered

**Unreasonable Addiction III  
**

**Chapter 7: Endangered**

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth

Clair leaned back in her chair, gazing expressionlessly at the two policemen on the other side of the table. She was still in Precinct Twelve, where Hanover had brought her. Apparently, it took time to make arrangements to move someone into Riker's for pre-trial custody. She'd been here for almost three hours, the most recent hour spent in this hard chair. At least her hands were cuffed in front of her now. The other arrangement had dragged unpleasantly at her recently-healed shoulder. At first, she'd been alone in here, though she knew that they were watching through the mirrored wall. She'd spent the time thinking. There was a lot to think about.

Otto _would_ come for her, she was sure of that. He'd killed to get her back before. And he'd probably be as irritated with her as she was with herself. Captured while getting groceries. And by _Hanover_ no less! The only worse thing would have been for it to be the bug. Silently and still, she had railed at herself for her incompetence, but she couldn't think of anything she could have done differently to avoid it. Facing the truth, she knew she was incapable, physically, of putting up much fight without the actuators. She was _weak_ on her own.

The two cops had come in and interrupted her train of thought before she gave in to the despondency that she felt threatening, taking the chairs opposite hers and sitting forward, leaning against the table in nearly identical poses. She stared back at them, evaluating them. Physically she might be weak, but she could handle these two in this setting of interrogation.  
One of the cops opened a file, her eyes flicking between the papers and Clair. "Doctor Clair Holmes, formerly Clair Watson?" she asked.

"Yes," she answered shortly, fixing her eyes on that one.

"Your file says here that you've encountered Octopus before, seven years ago, and you were entered into the Witness Protection Programme. And that a year ago, he found you again and took you into captivity, driving across Canada from Seattle to New York City. Arrival in New York City resulted in a confrontation with the vigilante known as Spider-man. You were seen threatening both him and a one Joshua Spisak with a deadly weapon, as well as having made an assault on Brandon Page, your then live-in boyfriend. The record skips ahead to an incident at Kurtzweil Memorial Hospital in which an MRI was stolen and you assaulted an agent of the FBI."

The other cop spoke up after she'd finished, his voice holding the calm of a snake poised to strike. "Have you lived with him this whole time?" he asked, staring stonily through half-open lids at her.

She nodded to both the list of details and the other's question. "Yes, I have."

"Willingly?" he asked next. The tone of his voice didn't sound like one doing anything else than gathering every nuance, every fact.

"Of course," she answered dismissively.

He sat back, regarding her with that same snakelike stare. "You've come to two options, Doctor Holmes," he said, his voice still maddeningly calm. "With the charges against you of aiding and abetting a terrorist with a record such as his, you're looking at a great many years in Riker's. However, if you should choose to help us apprehend him, you'll find your sentence considerably... lightened."

Her gaze went instantly cold, her eyes ice. "That is not an option."

"Why not, Doctor Holmes?" he asked slowly, patiently. "It seems to me that the less time spent in Riker's, the better. Are you afraid of what might happen should Octopus be apprehended? Are you, perhaps, afraid of what he might do to you?"

"Afraid that he might hurt me? No, not really. But I'd rather not have him 'apprehended.'" She laced her fingers together in her lap.

"And why is that, Doctor Holmes?" The cop pressed, still watching her stonily. His partner didn't seem to possess much more animation as she sat still, watching her calmly. These two really must have gotten high marks in the "unnerve the suspect" portion of their Academy training.

"It's not something I intend to explain to you," she said archly. Complete stillness didn't bother her; if it did, living with Otto would have been intolerable at times.

"Why not, Doctor Holmes? What sort of interest do you have in Octopus' freedom?"

"Life would be inexpressibly dull without him," she said dryly.

"You are aware that if you don't assist us, you will also be charged with obstruction of justice?"

"Perfectly," she said. "And perjury, at some point."

"This doesn't bother you, Doctor Holmes? Why not?"

"Because his freedom is more important than mine," she said before she could stop herself. The dual, unblinking stares must have been getting to her.

"Why would his freedom be more important than yours, Doctor Holmes?"

"How about you ask questions about less irrelevant topics?" she said, scowling. "My motives are hardly the important issues here."

"Unfortunately, Doctor Holmes, your motives are the relevant topic. We already know where Doctor Octopus is hiding. All that is left for it is to draw him out in order to apprehend him. That is where you come in," the cop replied slowly, unflappably.

"If I'm just bait," she answered, "Then it hardly matters why I do anything. Just hang me out there like a worm and wait for the big scary Octopus to come and flatten you all."

The cop smiled a humourless smile. "It will all work so much more smoothly if we've ensured your co-operation, Doctor Holmes."

"It isn't going to work at all," she said coolly, leaning forward. "So what are you going to do?"

"You sound confident," The cop replied. "Does he have a plan? Tell us what it is."

She made a skeptical face. "Does that ever work? Of course I'm not going to tell you."

The cop smiled that smile again. "We'll get back to that. Actually, I'm curious as to the circumstances surrounding the incident at the hospital two months ago. Why did Octopus need an MRI, and why did he seem to need your help to get it?"

"Hmm," she said, smiling fondly. "You've got that backwards. _I_ needed the MRI, and I needed _his_ help to get it."

"Why did you need it?" the cop asked, his face remaining expressionless.

One eyebrow rose. "To see inside someone's head."

"Whose head, Doctor Holmes?"

"Just some guy I went to high school with. He ran into us a few nights before the hospital affair and he'd changed a lot. I wanted to see exactly how. I'm a scientist, Officer..." She trailed off in a question.

"Smith," the cop replied stonily. "It seems a bit much to steal an MRI only to engage in a little class-reunion psychology."

"It only looks that way from your perspective; I assure you."

"Right now, for the purposes of this interrogation, mine is the only perspective that applies, Doctor Holmes."

"Congratulations," she said wryly. "In that case, then I took possession of the magnetic resonance imager because the alternative was a physical examination of the abnormal neurological structure that I detected with a Tesla scan and I had some tests that I still wanted to perform on the subject, none of which could be applied post-mortem."

"Mmhm," the cop nodded, as though he knew all that and just didn't care. "And what has Doctor Octopus got to do with this?"

"Hmm. Nothing, really. This was just satisfying my own curiousity. I'm a scientist, Agent, er, Officer Smith. Sorry, I've been dealing with the FBI today. I'm a scientist, a very good one. Presented with a tangled web such as this classmate presented, I couldn't resist."

The cop appeared to mull this over. "To what end?" he asked. "There's more here than curiosity. I couldn't help but notice, from the Bugle's usually vigilant account of such things, that Spider-man was conspicuously absent from the latest Doctor Octopus appearance."

"He was keeping watch," she said earnestly. Over the ceiling in her lab, but she didn't add that. No harm in tarnishing the bug's name if she could.

"Pardon my skepticism, but that seems a little... out of character for Spider-man."

She shrugged. "Who knows what goes on behind the mask. He's not all right up here." she tapped her temple with a cuffed hand.

"That sounds almost laughable from someone who willingly lives with a psychopathic terrorist," came Smith's cool reply.

She laughed at that. "I suppose it does. But I find Otto far less objectionable company than the bug."

"The propensity for violence doesn't bother you? The history of murder? The apparent--" his eyes flicked to her injured shoulder. "--abuse?"

"I've adapted," she said coolly. "And the "abuse" is not from him."

"Who, then?"

"Spider-Man," she said simply.

"I see. A fight with Spider-man. I see. Would this be before or after you were apparently given the ... arms?"

"Before. The bug's attack injured only an un_arm_ed citizen who hadn't broken any laws."

"Funny, Doctor Holmes," Smith replied, though his tone made it obvious that it was anything but. "Does this mean, then, that throughout the drive across Canada, you were not along with him of your own volition?"

"Of course I was."

"I see," Smith said again. "That refutes your previous claim because, by going willingly, you were aiding him in his escape."

"It's a complicated situation, Officer. If I _hadn't_ been willing, I would have ended up aiding his escape in exactly the same way, and probably been left in a ditch on the side of the road in British Columbia."

"Leaving him without the means to create more of your neural restorative serum?"

"Haven't you heard?" she replied sharply. "It's _Oscorp's_ serum now."

He blinked, visibly shifting tracks. "That bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Of course it does," she said, staring at him. "How do you think it feels to have your life's work stolen by some _hack_?"

"I wouldn't know," he replied unflappably. "This is my life's work. One cannot 'steal' police work." A pause. "You have a plan, don't you? To replay Osborn for his thievery. You need Octopus to carry it out? Is that why his freedom is more important than yours?"

She steepled her fingers in front of her face and slouched lower in her chair, the very picture of an uncooperative witness. "I have a plan," is all she said, smirking slightly.

"A plan that will not come to fruition now, I can assure you," Smith replied, stony, lacking even a grain of satisfaction that would otherwise humanize him even a little bit.

"You can assure me nothing," she said lightly. "Are we done yet? I don't really feel like talking to you any more."

"What are you so confident about, Doctor Holmes?" A slight demanding edge made its way into his tone.

She sighed through her nose and looked down at her hands, past him at the mirror, and up at the bright light that hung above the table. In general, she looked exceedingly bored with the proceedings. And she did not answer.

"Do you think Octopus is going to come and rescue you?" Smith asked, leaning forward.

She canted her eyes sideways at him, an amused expression on her face, but continued to say nothing. She was tired of this.

There was a long pause in which Smith stared at her. Finally, the other cop spoke up. "It doesn't look like we're going to get any answers out of her."

She nodded, smiling. "I'm happy to wait for my ride here, or did you want to move me downstairs?"

"We'll be taking you downstairs to a holding cell, Doctor Holmes," Smith replied, standing and walking round the table to where she sat.

She stood up, looking up at him. "Sounds fine to me. I don't think it really matters. But if it has an outside wall, you'll have less property damage when this is over."

"This attitude won't get you far," Smith replied, steering her out the door as his partner followed.

"Reflex," she said, unapologetically. "I think it comes with the awful pseudonym, courtesy of the Daily Bugle."

Smith's partner snerked, but maintained a straight face after that. They led Holmes down the stairs and into the nearest holding cell, locking her inside and leaving again.

She walked over to the bench along one wall and sat down, twisting her wrists inside the cuffs. And waited. She tipped her head back against the cement wall and shut her eyes. It was useless to pretend that she wasn't listening for the familiar sound of the actuators hammering their way closer, but all she heard were the machinations of the building and the drunken snoring of someone in a cell down the hall. Another hour passed. It had been four hours since she'd been taken into custody.

Otto _was_ coming for her.

* * *

The walls had begun to close in on Clair by the time a guard came into the cell block, followed closely by a young man in a leather jacket and three other women, one grey-haired and maternal-looking. She stayed where she was on the narrow bench as they stopped in front of her cell.

"Oh, Clair," said the older woman, in a voice so flattened that she might have been speaking in her sleep.

"Hello, Mom," she said, nodding a greeting. "Mark, Moira, Jennifer. Nice of you to come. Where's Dad?"

Her mother looked stricken. "Clair... He died. Two months ago. Cancer."

Clair blinked, shaken. "Oh. God. I'm sorry... I didn't even know he was sick." It was a hard thing to picture; her giant bear of a father, six foot four in his boots, had been so proud of his perfect attendance record at work. "_Never a sick day since the first grade_," he'd always said. "_And then only because they thought I was dying_."

"How could you?" snapped the man, gripping a bar in the front of her cell and grimacing. "You disappeared with that monster. We couldn't find you to tell you, if you even cared!"

"I would have come if I'd known, Mark," she said in a low voice. "I'm sorry." There was nothing more she could say. Her father was dead. That should have meant more to her.

"What's happened to you, Clair?" asked the taller woman plaintively. She towered over the others, probably taller than Otto even. Their father's genes. "What has he done to you?"

Clair's hands clenched on the edge of the bench. "Why does everyone ask me that?" she growled, baring her teeth. "I am a grown woman, Jennifer, not a child! I make my own choices! What I am now is not Otto's doing! I went into this with my eyes wide open."

"This criminal, this 'Doctor Octopus' has some sort of control over you, Clair. We know-"

"No one _controls_ me!" Clair interrupted harshly, but her sister continued regardless.

"We know he hurt you, Clair! It was on the news, live. We watched that freak cut off your ear!"

Clair opened her mouth to say something scathing, then changed it. She did not want to attack her family. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It was the only thing I could think of to keep him safe. We needed to convince the police that I was still Otto's hostage, so he could use me as leverage to keep them away long enough, and then to escape. It didn't hurt much. And I hardly notice it." Her voice softened unconsciously as she tried to reassure her mom, but it was Mark who answered, aghast.

"It was your idea? How the hell did he convince you of _that_?"

"Clair, he's a murderer, and a criminal, and a terrorist!" said Jennifer, her voice rising. Next to her, Moira, always the silent one, seemed to shrink in on herself.

"Do you honestly think I'm that stupid?" Clair asked, scowling at them. "I know what he is. I know what _I_ am, what I will be, what I would be already if not for that damn bug! _He,_ for the record, has done me a lot more damage than Otto ever would!"

"What do you mean, what _you_ are?" asked her mother, horrified. "You're not a murderer. You could never hurt someone." Clair looked at her, pity the predominant emotion she felt for this woman, who seemed almost a stranger.

"Mom," she started, wondering how to word this. "Mom, I can't live in the _rules_ any more. I can't do the things that I absolutely must do while living by all of the rules that society and the law try to _strangle_ me with. And I can't do it without him, and I can't do it without hurting people. I have tests to run, materials to procure. People will try to stop me. I can't let them do that, no matter the cost. The science is more important."

"More important than lives?" Mark bit off as their mother crumbled, burying her face in his shoulder. "Christ, Clair, what kind of monster has he turned you into? You were a doctor, for fuck's sake! You pratted on and on about that damn oath, and it means nothing to you now? You gave it up for this freak?"

"Don't call him that," she growled dangerously, suddenly on her feet. Mark was at her eye level, and she glared at him.

"What, a freak?" he snapped. "Oh, that's right. I forgot how much you hated being called a freak in school. Is that what this is, then? You pity him because he's a freak? He is, Clair, and you know it. He's insane and dangerous and he'll change his mind someday and kill you for the fun of it."

She was at the bars in an instant, her hand through it on the collar of his jacket. She yanked him forward so he banged up against the bars. "_Don't call him that_," she hissed before the guard reached them and tore them apart, driving Clair back from the bars with his nightstick. She glared at Mark, rubbing her newly-bruised shoulder. "He'll come and get me out of here. All _you_ came to do was throw accusations. Who deserves my loyalty more, Mark?"

"Clair, I saw those bruises on your neck seven years ago. I was fourteen, and it was the most terrible thing I had ever seen. His handprint wrapped _entirely _around your neck. He could have killed you right then. He doesn't deserve anything from you."

"Didn't kill me, did he?" she answered. "And he's never even threatened to hurt me since."

"Oh yeah?" said Jennifer incredulously. "Every single time anyone's seen you since he took you, you've been half-dead or broken."

"None of that was his fault," she pointed out. "He's the one who set my bones after _Spider-Man_ broke them." Her shoulders slumped; she didn't want to fight with her family. "Otto has never hurt me," she said honestly. "Not since the first time." And then she heard the sound she'd been listening for. "And now he's here to get me."

A loud crunching THOOM! could be heard. Then another. Screams accompanied it as the crashing drew closer, then gunfire as well. The sound drew closer, dust sifting down from the ceiling at each impact.

Clair meant to tell her family to go for cover, but she froze when she heard the gunfire, listening intently for any information she could get.

Moira broke her silence and screamed, but Jennifer clapped a hand over her mouth as Mark dragged all three women back, farther into the cell block away from the direction of the commotion. Clair barely noticed.

Another THOOM could be heard, nearly deafening by now, and more dust sifted down from the ceiling, the people in the other cells waking or snapping out of their funks or their drunken stupors and creating a babble of vulgar complains and questions. The door rattled, then flew into the room, along with a huge chunk of masonry and the body of an officer, his gun still clutched in his hand. A dark shape loomed in the smoke, coming forward on the snaking lengths of battered metal tentacles.

Clair rushed back to her bars. "I'm here," she called out. Between the smoke and the lack of glasses, she couldn't see any details. Back in the block, she could hear people, her mother and sister's included, screaming. Than a small shape ran in front of her, stopping in front of her cell. Mark, with a long chunk of the decimated door held in his hands like a baseball bat stood facing Otto, in a defensive stance.

The shape loomed closer, drawing ever nearer to the cell, tentacles snaking out and carrying him into the room and out of the smoke. One reached out and snatched the wood from Mark's hands with brutal force. Octavius narrowed his eyes, squinting through a haze of pain and the remains of the smoke. Close, but not quite. Was this Clair's family? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her holding the bars of the cell. Another actuator wrapped around Mark's waist and tossed him aside, away from the cell door. It and another then reached out to pull the bars out of the cement.

Clair backed away from the bars, watching Otto, her eyes running over him to see if he'd been hurt. It became obvious that he used his actuators for just about everything, as his left arm, its shoulder twisted at an unusual angle, hung useless, and both hands were streaked with blood, though whether it was his own or someone else's was hard to discern. Blood matted his hair into a tangle around his face and neck, and his face bore a long gash from one eye to his hairline, the skin stained almost completely red, the goggles cracked but still in place over his eyes, one of which looked as though it were probably swollen shut. His breath came in a heavy, wet wheezing and his coat glistened darkly in several places. Blood dripped on the floor below him. He didn't speak, but snaked one actuator into the cell and curled it around her, carefully but not gently.

"Oh god, Otto," she breathed, reaching for him even as the actuator squeezed her slightly too tightly. It didn't matter. He did.

"Hey, FREAK!" shouted Mark from down the hall where he'd been thrown, getting to his feet and picking up a chunk of rubble, throwing it at Otto. He missed, but he didn't shut up. "Leave my sister alone!"

Octavius' head whipped to the side to look at him, lips curling back in a vicious sneer. One actautor reached out and grabbed Mark's neck, lifting him from the floor.

"You heard him!" A voice shouted from the hole. "Drop them, Ock!" Spider-man leapt through the hole after Octavius. Octavius growled and the actuator flung Mark at the wall-crawler, who caught the other in a web, thus stopping his momentum.

Mark struggled to get loose. "Get my sister away from him!" he shouted to Spider-Man.

Clair's head whipped around to face the bug. "Did you do this to him?" she demanded furiously.

"I only wish I'd done all of it, but I didn't," Spider-man replied, two seconds before he was broadsided by another actuator. Octavius growled almost incoherently and the actuator pounded the arachnid into the floor, leaving him momentarily motionless. Octavius headed for the hole he'd made, still carrying Clair with one actuator and passing Mark, who'd managed to flail his way partially free of the web. Another actuator came over and snapped the chain between her cuffs.

"Clair!" Mark called desperately, reaching out to grab her. She tried to shake him off, glaring at him, but he persisted, tugging her bad arm with all his strength, which couldn't compare to the actuator around her waist.

The activity behind him caused Octavius to stop for just a moment as the actuator around Clair pulled her free of Mark's grip. However, this proved too long of a stop as the cop who'd flown in with the door, who'd been painfully trying to draw a bead on Octavius the whole time, finally squeezed off a shot. Octavius jerked, made a small strangled sound, and seemed to wilt. A thump behind them told Clair the cop had lost consciousness. The actuators lifted Octavius up higher and smashed their way through more walls, then following the trail of holes out of the building, quickly scaling the building across the street and making their way east, gunshots pinging off the concrete around them.

"Otto!" Clair shouted as the actuators carried them out of range. She knew he'd been shot, couldn't see where. "Otto, come on, talk to me, please!"

She could just see, from her swinging vantage point, that his lips moved soundlessly, blood running from them in a small rivulet. His head lolled forward, came back up, then wilted, nodding. He sputtered weakly and muttered something in a stringy wheeze, but she couldn't hear what it was over the wind and the clanking of the actuators as they carried them both over the buildings. Instead of taking them back to the house, the actuators crawled along the wall of an apartment building, opened the window, and pulled them both in, laying Otto on the floor.

As soon as the actuator let her go, she was kneeling at his side, pulling his coat out of the way, trying to see where he'd been hit. The amount of blood that soaked places on the garment was alarming enough, and she was nearly frantic.

He coughed weakly, a wet sound, one hand trying to push hers away, but it was weak and dropped to his side after a moment. The actuator harness had, strangely, absorbed a lot of the shots, rather like a flak jacket, but blood soaked his shirt just under the edge of the harness. His head lolled to one side and he fell still, breath still laboured.

She undid the clasps of the harness, barely waiting for the connections to withdraw before pushing it off him and tearing open his shirt. The gun shot wound was bleeding freely, frothy pink blood from the lungs and it bubbled with each breath. She pressed her hand on it, putting pressure, but she could feel the air in his chest cavity under her fingers. She couldn't help him. Not here, not with no supplies at all. Not even back at the house. Her mind raced. Lung shot. Twenty minutes, thirty, forty at the utmost to asphyxiation, if he didn't bleed out first. She looked around frantically for anything. The apartment was empty, but she could hear voices next door. She couldn't ease up the pressure, so she screamed towards the wall. "Someone, help me! Please!"

The voices stopped, and she shouted again before pounding footsteps went out to the hall and came around to the door. The handle rattled. "Please, he's dying!" she shouted, and the footsteps receded, then rushed forward again. The door smashed open with a crash to reveal a trio of guys who looked absolutely shocked to see Doc Ock lying on the floor. "Please," Clair pleaded. "I need you to call an ambulance. He's been shot through the lung, and he's going to die if we don't get help."

"Uhm, wouldn't that be a good thing?" one of them asked, pointing vaguely at the recumbent villain. The guy standing behind him nodded.

Octavius wheezed and coughed hard, blood flecking his already streaked face. "No..." he wheezed. "Not... ambulance..."

"Maybe we should go," the second guy muttered, backing up.

The third thwacked both of them. "Dude, where's your sense of karma?"

"What the hell you talking about? The first yelped. "He ain't got no sense of karma, does he? I say we just let him croak."

The third rolled his eyes and walked away, returning two seconds later with a phone. "Whatever, man," he huffed, dialing 911. He turned away and talked into the phone while his friends stared at the two on the floor.

Octavius grabbed for her hand, squeezing it hard. "_Spj..._ no ... we'll be ... taken in... can't let you..."

She gripped his hand back with her spare one, not letting up with the other. "No choice. I'm not going to let you die. Not after all this. Not for me." She looked up at the one dialing. "Thank you."

Octavius' eyes rolled toward the young man with the phone and he found himself watching him. His grip on Clair's hand loosened as his eyes drooped almost shut. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even think. He simply wanted to sleep; maybe he'd feel better after a rest...

"No, no," she urged, gripping his hand tight enough to hurt. "Don't fall asleep. I need you to send the arms away. Concentrate, get them out of here. Up onto the roof, or something. So you can call them back when you're patched up, get us both out of there. Keep an escape route open." She was speaking quietly right by his ear, and she could feel the boys watching her. "We'll get out of this, I promise."

"Hnnnnhhhh..." he wheezed. After a moment, the arms stirred, wobbling onto their ends, causing two of the three young men to yelp and skitter backward. They clanked toward the window and crawled slowly out of it, and she could hear them making their way upward. Octavius twitched and his eyes rolled. He coughed some more, gasping loudly.

"The ambulance is on its way," the fellow with the phone said, stepping closer. "Be about five minutes."

"Thank you," she said again, fervently. She paused a moment and looked up. "Did you call the police too?"

"Nah," he said simply.

She nodded, smiling gratefully and turned back to Otto. "You still with me? Help will be here soon. You're going to be okay." Senseless, reassuring prattle meant as much for herself as for him.

He moaned incoherently and stirred. "Told you not to..." he mumbled wheezily.

"I don't have a choice," she insisted. "I'm not a thoracic surgeon. I can't fix this. I need to get you somewhere where they can. You're going to be fine, and then we'll escape again. You've come back from the dead, this is going to be easy."

"Ffffhh... ffinjrr... opt'mism... 'mmusing..." he spluttered, and coughed again. "can' breathe..."

"Just hold on," she said. She could hear sirens getting closer. Looking up at the man with the phone, she brushed her hair out of her face, leaving a bloody streak across her cheek. "Could you meet them downstairs, get them up here as fast as you can? Tell them it's a lung shot, left inferior lobe. About fifteen minutes ago."

He nodded and left, his two friends still standing in the doorway and staring. They watched him leave, then returned their gazes to Clair and Octavius, watching with the same kind of blank, slackjawed stare one usually sees on witnesses of a train wreck.

"Oh man, the rest of the guys are so not gonna believe this," one of them said, shaking his head. The other nodded.

She shot them a glance, but her attention was on Otto. A minute later, a bunch of paramedics pounded up the stairs into the apartment, bringing in a backboard. One of them took over Clair's post, almost pushing her out of the way. "What happened?" another asked her. "How'd he get shot?" She could see him looking around for a weapon.

"In the back," she answered vaguely, watching them work, rolling him on to the backboard and strapping him on.

A vague distressed sound escaped him as they did this, his hand not releasing Clair's. One of them pulled the goggles from his face, peeling open one eye despite his semi-verbal protestations, as another ripped open an IV needle and tube and a third pushed the tube to a breather bulb into his mouth.

Another looked at her, checking that she wasn't hurt, and noticed the broken handcuffs hanging from her wrist. She ignored him, holding on to Otto's hand as they inserted the IV into his wrist and taped it in. "What's his blood type?" another asked her.

"A positive," she supplied absently, and he nodded and connected a bag of fluid, holding it up. The one who'd noticed her handcuffs pulled out a radio and said something into it that she didn't catch.

"I'm a doctor," she said when they tried to pry her away from him. "Let me come with him."  
"Hnngh...," Octavius coughed, his eyes screwed shut. The paramedic with the light tried a second time before giving up, unable to get a good fingerhold on his blood and sweat-soaked face. Octavius' grip on Clair tightened and he coughed, spitting up wiggly, bloody mucus

The paramedics sped up, working faster to insert a chest tube, to allow the air that had collected outside his lungs to escape. One pumping the breather bulb with one hand and holding up the IV bag with the other, the others picked up the back board like a stretcher and headed out of the apartment, maneuvering through the narrow hallway and down the stairs as carefully as they could. Clair stayed with them, not letting go of Otto's hand, her eyes on his face.

His eyes flickered open, gazing at her unfocusedly. He tried to speak, to no avail, the tube down his throat preventing any sound. His hand tightened around Clair's and his focus returned for a moment before his eyes rolled back and closed.

She looked up at the closet medic, who nodded. "He's better unconscious," she said, climbing up into the ambulance to help pull him in, setting the backboard directly on the gurney there and belting it on. The IV bag was hung on a hook from the ceiling.

The man with the radio took the driver's seat, still on his radio. "No, we _can't_ wait for a police escort!" he snapped, starting the engine. "I don't care who he is, he's dying in my van!" Clair listened to him, anxious, as she took a seat on the bench next to Otto. "Meet us there. Yeah, she's with him. She's coming too, won't let go of his hand. Fine." With an irritated sigh, he snapped the radio shut and flicked on the siren, pulling out into traffic with a slight lurch.

"Who is he?" asked the female medic, looking at Otto. "What was that about a police escort?"

"We have the _honour_," grated the driver. "Of transporting one Otto Octavius, or Doctor Octopus, and one Ockette, Dr. Clair Holmes. The police will meet us at the hospital, they are very much under arrest. Keep her from doing anything stupid," he said, glancing up into the rear view mirror at Clair. She just hunched in her seat, clinging to Otto's hand as if it were a life line. For which one of them, she didn't know.

They arrived at the ER of Kurtzweil Memorial Hospital into the middle of a circus of media and police. The paramedics pushed their way through the cordon on either side of Otto's gurney, sweeping Clair along with them. She was not going to let go. And she didn't, even when they tried manually to pry their fingers apart. In the end, they gave her an apron, gloves, and a mask and worked around her, stitching and cutting and repairing the damage done. It wasn't just the one gun shot; there was another graze on his leg, the slash across his face, which was bloodier than it was deep, and broken ribs, which threatened his other lung, as well as a broken collar bone and dislocated shoulder. She stood by his legs, out of the way, both of her hands wrapped around his, ignoring the din in the room of doctors and out of the room of police and press, just watching his heart rate on the scanner, shallower than it should have been and jumpy. She ignored the nurse who shrieked when she realized who the patient was and ran from the room, only to be replaced by an older RN.

She was beginning to waver on her feet when the surgeon nodded decisively and stripped off his gloves. "That's it," he said confidently. "He'll pull through." He looked down at Clair. "Good job getting pressure on it right away. He's lost a lot of blood, but we've already begun replenishing that, and he's all stitched up and good to go. We'll move him into ICU for a while, but I'd call him stable and improving."

She smiled and would have answered, but the door opened behind her. The blast of noise and flashing camera bulbs was headed by Hanover who strode in with a triumphant grin on his face.

Clair glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned back to Otto, reaching out to brush his hair back from his face. "Don't look so pleased with yourself, Handover. We won't be here long."

"On the contrary," Hanover smirked. "As soon as he's stable enough to be moved, you'll both be transported to prison."

"Well, I suppose we ought to be grateful to you for waiting." she said acerbically.

"Believe me, I wouldn't have, but someone somewhere along the line made it illegal to 'endanger' anyone, even monsters like him."

Clair looked back at him again. "How fortunate for - " She paused, because over Hanover's shoulder, she spotted a familiar face. "Parker!"

For a reply, Parker simply raised the camera to his face and snapped a picture. Hanover turned and looked at him. "Well, well, the kid from the Bugle. You finally decided to show up."

"Wouldn't miss this for anything," Parker replied, still behind the camera. He looked bruised but otherwise all right from the beating he'd received at the prison.

"No, of course not," said Clair dryly, raising her eyebrows. "I have things I want to discuss with you, Parker. But I doubt you want to me to say them here, so they'll have to wait."

Orderlies came to move Otto into a private room in the ICU. Clair, of course, went with him. "Well, I hope you two enjoy the rest of your time together," Hanover observed casually as he followed after them. "Prison's not very good for relationships, so I've heard."

"I'm not very worried," she said, snagging a stool to sit by Otto's bedside. "Nothing involving Otto can be measured by any other standard or judged by any other precedent. And we're not going to prison, at any rate."

"Touching," Hanover sneered.

The doctor, who'd introduced himself as Dr. Tannin, looked up from his clipboard, where he was taking notes. "Agent Handover, was it?" he said politely, adjusting his glasses. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, please. Post whatever guard you want outside the door, but not in here. You can stay," he said to Clair, eyeing their clasped hands. Clair smirked at Hanover.

Hanover scowled and turned, leaving, sparing the two another glance before stalking out.  
Clair sighed and nodded a 'thank you' to the doctor. "When do you think he'll wake up?" she asked quietly. He checked his notes.

"Four hours or so. We won't move him out of the ICU until tomorrow, though."

She begged a book off of him before he left them in the windowless room. Whenever the door opened, she could see a barricade of SWAT team members, guns at the ready, waiting outside, the press crowding close behind them. She waved at Parker once, then turned to her book. Time passed slowly.

Dusk had filled the outside with gloomy, purplish light by the time Octavius moved, his eyes fluttering open and his hand twitching.

"Mnnnhhh... Nh?" he said, his eyes tracking toward her. "Clair..." he wheezed after a moment, his voice a barely audible hoarse rattle.

She set aside her book, squeezing his hand. "Hey. Welcome back."

"Where ... am I?" he rasped.

"The hospital," she supplied. "Kurtzweil. The doctor was just here, about half an hour ago, and he says you're doing well."

"I ..." he coughed again. "Don't think ... we're the only ones here ... are we?"

"No," she said reluctantly. "Hanover and half the city's law enforcement is out there, but the doctor wouldn't let them in here." She indicated the door.

He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut. "We're ... stuck here?"

"Not for long," she said. "Your arms aren't far, and the only thing below us is the parking garage. As soon as you recover enough to control them, we can get out."

"Mmm," he said. Experimentally, he tried to listen for them, but he was just far too tired. His eyes fluttered open again and he looked up at her, watching her.

"Don't worry about it," she said, looking up at the door again. "The doctors here are useful. They haven't let anyone, press or police, near us since we got here. Which reminds me. Parker was here."

"What'd he wan'?" Octavius slurred sleepily. The vague notion that Parker seeing him like this wasn't a good idea floated aimlessly through his mind, but he had the sneaking suspicion that blood loss and morphine were pretty much preventing much coherent thought.

"To gloat, I presume," she growled. "I didn't expose him, though it was tempting. But he knows I can, so I don't know what he's going to do."

"Take pictures mos' likely," he mumbled. "See it on th' fron'page tomorrow..."

"Hopefully, we'll be out of here by then." She would have said more, but the door opened then, briefly letting in the swell of noise and Dr. Tannin.

"Oh, good, you're awake," he said after shutting the door. He crossed the room to Otto's side, pulling a pen light out of his pocket. "Can you tell me your name and what day it is?"

Octavius stirred, the cuffs clinking softly against the bed railing. "Otto Octavius, January twenty-second," he mumbled, a wry look on his face. He eyed the penlight.

"Good." Tannin leaned forward with the light, meaning to check his pupil reactions, but Clair stopped him. "He's sensitive to light. Can we have it a little dimmer in here?"

"Sure," he said, adjusting the switch so the room was in half-light. "How do you feel, Octavius? You're on a pain-killer drip, but do we need to adjust the dosage?"

"'M fine," he mumbled, and coughed, a long series of wet sounds. His eyes remained closed after it stopped, and he breathed slowly and deliberately.

"You will be," corrected the doctor. "You came in with a collapsed lung, Dr. Octavius. We re-inflated it and it's doing fine now, but you need to be very careful for a while. Sudden exertion could cause a relapse. You do understand that you are under arrest?"

"Mmhm," he tried to make a dismissive motion, but his hand wouldn't move far enough.

"Don't try to move too much. You've a broken collarbone and a dislocated shoulder on your left side. We put two pins in the collarbone to hold it together." He looked at his clipboard again. "I'm planning on releasing you from the ICU tomorrow, but I won't sign for your transfer until your lung has recovered. Three days, four, if you take it easy."

Clair squeezed Otto's hand. She didn't intend them to still be here by then.

"Mm," he mumbled again, his eyes slipping shut.

Tannin looked at Clair. "Best to let him sleep if he needs it. I'll be back in an hour to check on him." He looked away. "Agent Hanover is still here, and I can't keep him out any longer without obstructing justice. He'll be in after I leave."

Clair sighed as the doctor left, weaving her fingers more securely into Otto's.

The door opened further, allowing in the noise and Hanover as Doctor Tannin left. Hanover stopped inside the room, looking at the two of them.

Clair stared back at him, her face closed. "Haven't you gloated enough yet, Hanover?"

Hanover smirked. "Your little lair has been searched, your research confiscated as well as the wetware control array," he finished, directing a nasty smile at Octavius. When the other didn't stir, Hanover frowned, and redirected his attention to Clair. "We found some graphs and readings of an abnormal brain in your records. Whose is it?"

She glared at him stonily. "You realize that you have just set my work back again. This is not a good way to ensure my cooperation, Handover." She turned back to Otto, shrugging. "And as for the brain, it's Spider-Man's."

"I see. Well, now that we have Octavius in custody, your co-operation is no longer needed," Hanover replied, smirking wider.

She watched Otto, not letting any of her thoughts show on her face. She hoped desperately that she hadn't shut the trap on Otto, but she'd had no choice. Her only idea going in, and she hadn't come up with any new ones, was for Otto to get them out of here when he'd recovered enough. But time was the issue. If they moved them to Rikers before then, they would be too far away.

Hanover leaned against the wall, arms folded. "So. Tell me about Spider-man's brain."

"Not even my Zombie Juice could repair what's wrong with that," she said absently. "A mind firmly in _park_, you might say." She rolled her eyes at herself.

"What was the abnormality?"

"He's got spiders on the brain. And in it."

He left the wall and came closer. "Explain."

"Didn't you see the scans?" she asked, rolling her eyes over to look at him. "He's of two minds, Hanover. A second brain, woven into parts of the human neurological system."

"Did you plan to do something with that?'

She shook her head aloofly. "Not at the moment. I have other experiments in progress. And he interfered by escaping anyway. I'll have to arrange to finish with him later."

"Not terribly likely," Hanover smirked. He looked down at Octavius and his smirk faded. "Pathetic. This is the man who took up so much of my time and energy?"

Clair sneered at him. "Don't forget that he could have killed you two months ago. And I told you already, don't get too smug."

"Oh? Why, what are you planning?"

She looked at him witheringly. "Do you honestly think I'd tell you that?"

"I don't know, don't you types usually gloat about your plans?"

"Only once they've succeeded."

"And you haven't assumed that already?"

"I'm smart enough not to count it a success when I'm sitting in a room surrounded by SWAT," she said calmly. "At least, not just yet."

"We'll see," Hanover replied.

"Well, _you _might not," she said, and the tone was clearly a threat.

"Are you threatening me, Doctor Holmes?" Hanover asked very quietly.

"Only a little," she said, looking back at her hands and Otto's. Waiting for him to wake up, she'd been allowed to clean him up, but blood still outlined both their nails.

"We can simply add that to your list of offences," he replied, heading for the door. "I will see the both of you in prison, mark my words, Doctor Holmes."

"Only so I can make you eat them," she said pleasantly.

He scowled at that and the door let in more noise before shutting again behind him, leaving the room in relative quiet.

She took a deep, sighing breath and closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall again. That man was almost as aggravating as the bug, but it was so much fun to taunt him.

She opened her eyes and looked back at Otto. He was pale against the pillow, his hair jet by contrast. She ran her fingers through it, teasing out a knot. He was hurt because of her. She reflected on all the times she'd seen him injured. The gunshot wound from Hanover in Seattle. Any number of battles against Spider-Man. But she'd never seen him hurt this badly. And it was because he had had to rescue her from her own idiocy.

"You should have left me," she murmured to the silent room.

"I couldn't do that," he mumbled softly after a moment, his eyes still closed.

She bent over his hand. "I'm a distraction to you. A danger. Leverage." Her voice shook. "Every time I step out the door, I'm going to be a way for someone like Hanover to target you, and I'm too weak to do anything about that. It was just the two of them, and I couldn't get away."

"You're integral," he mumbled. "And you're mine."

She held his hand up against her face, bending to accomodate the limits of the cuffs and careful of the IV in his wrist. "But that's the problem. They know that now. They know that you'll go to these lengths to get me back, and they'll use that. Hanover knew that you would come for me. And look where that got you. A little farther to the right, and the bullet would have gotten your spine as well as your lung."

"S'a risk I take," he mumbled, forcing his eyes open. The lids got about halfway and he stared glassily up at her. "My choice, in the end."

"It's too big a risk," she insisted. "What if they'd been more ready for you? We have an escape route this time, but what about next time?"

He sighed, pushing his eyes open further. "Every instance is an independent event," he said slowly, as though trying to keep his thoughts focused. "And I _always _have a plan."

"I know," she said, smiling a little. "And I know you'll get us out of here. But right now, just concentrate on getting better, okay?"

"Don't presume to think..." he managed slowly. "That I didn't know ... what ... this entailed ... for the both of us."

Her brow furrowed. "I know you did. I was just worried about you. I am."

"Don't ... tell me ... to leave you ... again," he said, looking up at her, eyes a little more focused.

"I won't let you risk your life for me again," she insisted. "If I can't take care of myself, then I'm not strong enough to be with you."

His hand tightened around hers, his grip still surprisingly strong. "No-one _lets _me do anything. If I decide it's worth the risk, then it's worth the risk." His brows met.

"I can't stand this," she said through gritted teeth. "I don't _want _to be a risk to you."

"You've said this already!" His hands pulled at the restraints, creating a clanking noise, as he tried to sit up, failing. "How many times do I have to tell you that whether or not you are a risk is not your decision! You've been making far too many of these decisions lately! Taking far too much control!" He paused, wheezing, and staring hard at her. "You will--" he broke off, coughing. "I won't ... allow--" the coughing intensified and he flopped backward, red-faced and wheezing hideously.

"You won't allow what?" she asked, stung.

He struggled to catch his breath, wincing with pain. "I will not ... allow ... you ... to ... decide ... my course of action, my ... assesment of ... risk ... No-one ... makes those ... decisions for me--" he broke off again, coughing loudly, spitting up more reddish, wobbly gobbets. "Agh... don't argue with me..." he grated, face twisted in pain again.

"Calm down before you hurt yourself worse," she urged him. "I'm not making any decisions for you now."

"There .. you ... telling me what ... to do ... always..." he wheezed, eyes glassy and fevered. "No-one--" more coughing. "tells..." The racing heart monitor caught her eye.

"Otto, please," she pleaded as the line on the moniter spiked worryingly high. "Please calm down, or you're going to kill yourself!" Her voice cracked, an inch away from crying.

His eyelids drooped and he fell silent, still wheezng loudly and occasionally coughing--strings of wet sounds somewhat lessened in intensity but still worrying. He stared at her.

"Please," she continued, softer. Her eyes were wet. "Please be more careful. I can't..." Her shoulders shook and her voice broke again. "I can't lose you."

The coughing died down to an occasional, unconscious thing every frew breaths. "I can't... lose you, either, he wheezed. "That is why I do what I do. What I did."

She didn't argue anymore, merely rested her free hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his breath. "You can't lose me," she murmured. "I'm yours."

He closed his eyes. "And you won't lose me... I won't ... allow it..."

* * *

Only the low hour-chime alerted Clair to the fact that it was morning, jerking her out of a light doze. She hadn't been willing to sleep, for fear that they would separate them, but she'd definitely slipped below the level of consciousness at some point. She twitched, startled, and her book slid off her lap onto the floor. She ignored it, looking first to Otto. 

He lay sleeping quietly, his head tilted to the side, still save for the slow up and down motion of his chest. The line on the heart monitor, while maybe not as steady as she would have liked, was at least steady enough, unhurried. In the grey sunlight from the window, he looked pale and bruised.

She smiled, rubbing the stiffness out of her face, and reached out to brush his hair back from his face, pulling a few strands out from under the bandage covering the gash above his eye. Sighing, he woke slowly, blinking up at her and looking for a moment as though he didn't know where he was.

"Still in the hospital," she said lightly. "How do you feel today?"

"Dulled," he mumbled after a moment's consideration. "Probably better than the alternative..."

She nodded. "Can you feel them yet?" she asked as the door opened. The rumble was still out there, though quieter than yesterday. Dr. Tannin came in, looking as if he hadn't had much sleep either. "You have a visitor, Dr. Holmes," he said, circling to the other side of Otto's bed to examine him.

She looked up at him and blinked. "A visitor?"

"Mark Watson. He said he was your brother."

"Ah." She looked back at Otto. "I don't want to see him."

"Suit yourself," Dr. Tannin said, finishing what he was doing. "Well, Dr. Octavius, it looks like we can release you from ICU with no problems. We're looking for a room right now, but we'll be back to move you soon."

"Mmmm," was his vague reply, his eyes closed. He coughed, like he'd been doing on and off all night, a tired sound. His eyes slitted open.

"Oh, right," said the doctor. "She said you were sensitive to light, so I brought you these." He pulled a pair of black sunglasses out of his pocket, handing them to Clair. "I must say, Dr. Octavius, you've been a model patient. Agent Hanover, the man who was here earlier, was telling me horror stories about you."

Clair scowled at the agent's name, slipping the glasses on Otto's face.

"He would... self-aggrandising fool," Octavius mumbled. He paused, coughing, and continued. "'n b'sides... drugs take the edge off one..."

"Have you been coughing like that all night?" he asked, a moment of concern on his face.

A vague wry look. "Wouldn't know... been sleeping through it, haven't I?"

Tannin turned his eyes patiently to Clair, who nodded. "All night, and often."

He made a note on his clipboard. "Probably just an irritation in the larynx from the tracheal tube causing the coughing, but it's not good for the repairs done to your lung if we let it continue. I'll add a cough suppressant to your IV. You'll probably sleep some more with it."

He left the room to go and get the medication, leaving the door ajar.

An amused sound. "Hmf... I'll end up sleeping my life away," Octavius mumbled vaguely.

Clair bit her lip, worried. "We need your head clear, not more drugs." Before she could say anything more, the door edged open farther and her brother slipped in quietly. She stared at him. "What are you doing here?" she asked accusingly. He had had a hand in getting Otto shot, after all.

Mark held up his hands in truce. "I'm just here to make sure you're okay, Clair. They wouldn't give us any details." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the rest of the hospital, studiously ignoring Otto. "You are seriously under arrest. There are at least sixty cops out there, just waiting for you to try anything."

"I'm not the one who got hurt," she said, barely civil. "Please leave, Mark. I can't talk to you right now."

"Fine," he said shortly, drawing himself up to his full height. "But at least talk to Mom before they cart you off to rot in jail with him. She wants to know how you could choose a freak like that over your own family." And he ducked out of the room before she could answer him, leaving her pale with rage and shaking. Her hand tightened on Otto's as she forced herself to calm down. "Family just gets in the way," she murmured to herself.

"Mmm." His typical vague reply. His eyes opened. "I can hear them," he said softly.

She looked out the window, as though she could see them coming. "How long?" she asked quietly, glancing back at the door. In the corridor, she could hear three raised voices: Dr. Tannin, Mark, and another that she didn't recognize. They seemed to be arguing about separating Otto and Clair, and about medications.

"Only a few minutes," he whispered, eyes darting sightlessly under barely-open lids.

"I'll hold them off," she whispered back as Dr. Tannin came in, followed by a very large policeman. "Dr Octavius," said Tannin apologetically. "I've been ordered to put you under heavy sedation until you can be moved to a more secure facility. I'm sorry about this."

Clair stood up, standing between the men and Otto. "Can you give us a few more minutes?" she asked innocuously. "We were just talking."

The large cop grunted in amusement. "Say your goodbyes, then, Dr. Holmes. We're removing you to another location. You can see Ock again at the trial."

"Where are you taking me this time?" she asked, playing for time.

"Somewhere where he won't find you," said the cop. He looked as if he was enjoying her discomfiture. "Ever."

"He's pretty good at finding me," she pointed out.

"Not from a cell."

She eyed Doctor Tannin as he drew a dose of whatever sedative it was that he had, tapping the needle for air. "That's really not necessary; you said it yourself, he's been a model patient."

The big cop laughed. "And how long is that going to last? Hey, is he even awake?" He peered past Clair at Otto, looking for a reaction. "Hey, Doc Ock, we're taking your girlfriend away." He stepped forward, one hand closing around Clair's arm even as Dr. Tannin pushed past her with the syringe, injecting its contents into the IV feed. Clair yanked her arm from of the cop's unprepared grasp and ducked under Tannin's arm, pulling the IV feed out of the shunt in Otto's arm before the sedative could reach him. The solution dripped on the floor as the cop lunged forward and grabbed Clair by the arm again, dragging her back. She struggled, but he twisted her arm up expertly behind her back, and she froze as she felt the joint of her elbow stretch painfully. "What are you trying to pull?" he growled.

A smile crossed Octavius' features.

A beat later, something crashed through the window, thumping and clanking into the room. The actuators snaked their way in from the window, the harness suspended bizarrely above everyone. One tentacle lifted and slapped the cop with enough force to knock him backward while a second reached for the restraints, grasping them and easily breaking them.

Clair smiled widely in relief as the cop was knocked away from her. Dr. Tannin was backing slowly away from Otto and the arms, his eyes huge and his face dead pale. "I'd get down," Clair advised him, but he turned and bolted for the door instead.

The actuators ignored him. Carefully, they plucked the sensors from their owner's chest, and then pulled him up into a sitting position, the harness descending around him. Clumsily, he fumbled with the catches until they were all latched. The cop hauled himself up off the floor and one tentacle grasped his head slamming it against the wall with a sickening crack where he slid to the floor, motionless. Another one wound itself around Clair and they were both lifted into the air the moment the door burst open, a dozen SWAT team members running in, immediately opening fire on them as they made their way to the window.

"Let's go!" she screamed as bullets thunked into the walls and ceiling around them, pinging off the tentacles, which seemed to be everywhere.

They quickly pulled the two out through the window, scaling up the side of the building before heading across it. They headed south, picking their way over the suspiciously quiet buildings in the frigid morning air, the sun shining brightly off the actuators despite their battered appearance.

Clair relaxed slightly in the actuator's grip, just happy to be out of the hospital. Watching Otto. "You look like you're freezing," she observed. "Do you know anywhere we can go?"

"Mm," he said, shivering slightly. "I have an old base ... south of here," he said, and his voice caught, dissolving into coughing before he continued. "Maybe ... another... twenty blocks or so... we can stay there before moving on ... to another house."

"Sounds good," she said before reaching out and wrapping her arms around his chest, sharing what little heat she had and being careful of his ribs. "We can stay there until your lung is better." She sighed deeply. "I'm going to have to start my research over again from what I can remember."

"We'll find it," he coughed. "If it means we have to take it from Osborn or this wretched police force ourselves."

She started to say something about it being too dangerous, but stopped before the words reached the air. That seemed to be a sore subject, and she didn't want to set him off again. "When you're better," she said instead.

"Obviously," came the reply, and he lapse into silence save for the occasional fit of coughing until they reached another apartment building, slipping round the building and then opening a window, making their way in.

The apartment was sparsely furnished and cold, and the actuators lowered Octavius onto the couch while setting Clair on her feet nearby, then one snaked out to shut the window. Another found the thermostat on the wall, turning its dial a precise amount which may or may not have been enough.

Clair prowled around, finding a heavy shirt for him in the bedroom, stiff and a little musty but clean. She also snagged the blankets off the bed, bringing them back out into the living room, checking the thermostat and tweaking it a little bit higher. "How many of these places do you have around the city?" she asked, dumping the pile by his feet and handing him the shirt.

"Maybe a dozen..." he wheezed, fumbling at the catches of the harness with frozen fingers. Eventually it came free and clattered to the floor, leaving him breathing heavily for a moment. He attempted to pull the shirt on, but with one arm in a sling, it was a little difficult.

"You should go into real estate." She helped him with the shirt, not trying to thread the injured arm through a sleeve, and then she wrapped the blankets around them both. "Warm up, rest, and then we'll think about what to do next," she muttered, catching his hand in hers.

Too tired to rebuke her for once again having given orders, he lay back on the couch, his fingers still curled around hers. His skin was cold to the touch. "Hnn... shouldn't sleep," he mumbled.

"Should, actually," she suggested, making sure he was lying straight enough for his ribs. "You don't cough as much while you sleep."

"Should keep watch," he persisted, trying to stifle more coughing. "Might have been followed." His hand pulled at hers with little strength.

"I'll keep watch," she promised. "You need to sleep."

His eyelids fluttered in an attempt to keep them open. "Stay..." he managed, his voice little more than a stringy wheeze. "Never been... s'cold b'fore..."

She huddled closer to him in their nest of blankets, worried. He had always been the warm one in their duo. She had little heat to offer. She unwound herself from him for a moment to get out and turned the thermostat up to full, then got all the clothes from the sparse closet and piled them on top of the blankets for warmth-weight before sliding back in.

A halfhearted effort to slip his arm around her was the only reaction from him that she could feel. His breath had already slowed, and his eyes were closed.


	8. Retrieval

**Unreasonable Addiction III**

**Chapter 8: Retrieval**

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth.

* * *

Clair kept her word and kept watch while he slept through the day. The sky outside the window brightened, then dimmed without ever changing shades of grey until suddenly turning a charcoal blue that meant the unseen sun must have set.

Easing his eyes open, Octavius looked up at her. "Mmmhh," he said groggily.

She looked back at him. "You feel any better?" The apartment was warm, but not stiflingly so, and the only light came in through the window from the street.

"Warmer," he whispered. He drew a breath and the hissed, his face squeezing. "Agh..."

"I don't have any painkillers," she said, wincing sympathetically. "Is it too bad?"

"Ngh... be better if you ... get off of me..." he grated.

"Sorry!" She sat up from where she'd been lying with her head on his shoulder. "Now?"

"Now I know why... they kept me ... on... a morphine drip..." he panted. His good hand curled into a fist and he tried to deepen his breating only to end up coughing again. "Agh.."

"I have morphine in my lab," she said frustratedly. "And I can't get to it." It hurt to see him like this. "Just breath as even as you can. Not deep, just even."

"You can... summon yours... " he managed, trying to even out his breathing. "Bring them here... then go back ... to the lab... get what you need... always provided it's left..."

"But I've never even tried to control them without wearing them," she protested, nonetheless thinking about the idea. "I've never even figured out how you do it."

His good hand reached out, grasping some random part of her, finding her arm and squeezing hard. "No ... excuses!" he grated, then he made an effort to calm himself. "Listen ... for them ... with the same part of your mind ... that you use to control them while ... you're wearing them. Should be a high-pitched sound..."

"I'll try," she said, pulling his hand off her arm and holding it in both of hers. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Without the arms, it was harder just to find that part of her mind. She pictured them in her head, pictured that sensation until she could feel it and then..._ she could feel it! _ Feel them, distant yet connected, waiting for a command. She breathed out a long, slow breath, smiling slightly.

"Have you found them?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded, not opening her eyes.

There was... something... there, something she'd simply never noticed when she wore them. She was aware, in a shapes-and-movement way, of what was around them. It confused her at first, but then she figured out that this was a wall, and that was a floor and that bright, moving shape was a person, leaning over them. The room was unfamilier. They weren't in her lab, where she'd left them. Back in the apartment with Otto, she turned her head, facing almost due north. The arms were still waiting for a command, and she gave it to them. The arms' viewpoint shifted, raising above the person, who left their vicinity quickly, and then a part of the wall was gone and they were coming to her.

Slitting his eyes open and staring through the haze of pain, he watched her eyes dart under their closed lids, almost as though she was asleep. He felt her fingers tighten around his.

After a moment to get her (their?) bearings, the arms began to crab over the buildings. She thought she recognized where they were, but it was hard to tell in that shapes-vision. They scrambled from rooftop to rooftop, and then she heard a thump on the roof above them. Firming her control over them, she brought them down the wall, opened the window, and brought them in before opening her eyes. "I did it," she breathed.

His eyes tracked to the side to see them coming toward her. "Nnhh..." he mumbled. "See?"

She squeezed his hand before letting it go and stripping off her shirt, backing into the harness and fastening it. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised.

"I ... highly doubt I'm going anywhere," he mumbled, looking up at her.

She moved to the window and looked back at him, then headed out and shut it behind her.

The wind was cold against her bare arms, but she ignored it, moving up onto the roof tops and heading northeast towards their old neighborhood. Two cars and a black van were parked in front of their house, but it was quiet. She lurked on the roof of the empty house across the street, assessing the situation.

Through the window--now that the curtains had all been opened--she could see a shape moving through the house, one that appeared suspiciously Hanover-shaped. He appeared to be carrying something large.

She narrowed her eyes. Hanover was in _her house_, and the thing in his arms looked suspiciously like her newly repaired Tesla scanner. She crossed the street from one bare tree to another, and crept onto her roof, slipping into their bedroom from the skylight. The upstairs hallway was empty, and she slipped down to the stairs, moving as quietly as she could with the actuators.

The lab, at the moment, was empty both of people and of equipment. She was able to see the surface of the tables for the first time since they'd acquired them. But the meds were still there, in an open cabinet set in the wall.

She seethed in frustration at the rampant theft, especially the MRI and Otto's wetware work, but took the meds that she needed. No trace of her ZJ experiments were there, which nearly made her smash something in reflex, but subtlty won out as she filled a discarded case with morphine and syringes, then headed back upstairs quietly, fury testing her restraint.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and a very surprised Hanover stood on the other side, nouth open and eyes wide. He lifted a finger. Took a breath to speak. She didn't hesitate, but snapped two actuators forward, one wrapping around his chest and the other clamping its claw across his mouth as he was yanked down the stairs. She grinned at him. "Not your lucky day, Handover. I was _looking_ for someone to blame for all of this," she said, quietly but fiercly, sweeping out a hand to indicate the ransacked lab.

"Mmph... mmm mm-MMPH!" was his reply as his hands pulled at the actuator.

She listened intently to the rest of the sounds in the house, but she couldn't hear anyone else. She pulled back the claw, extending a scalpel to hold at his throat. "Quiet," she cautioned him. "Where was my research taken?"

"I wouldn't tell you even if I did know," Hanover grated, eyeing the scalpel.

The tentacle around his ribs tightened. "You really out to rethink that idea."

"Where's your partner?"

"Taking some of the items to headquarters," he managed, still eyeing the scalpel, already panting for breath.

"Is there anyone else here?"

"No," he gasped.

She eased up the pressure and withdrew the scalpel. "Wonderful. I'm glad to see that even you can be cooperative." The actuators carried them both up the stairs, leaving the way she came in. "This should make Otto feel better, at least," she mused aloud to Hanover as she left via the roof.

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded, struggling to free himself.

She laughed aloud. "Hehehehehhh, is that standard script for being kidnapped by a person with more than their fair share of arms? I swear I asked Otto the exact same question the first time I met him." She moved roof to roof and tree to tree, carrying them into the denser part of the city.

"That's not answering my question, Doctor Holmes."

She looked at him. "I don't think that you're really in a situation to be asking questions, Agent Hanover."

"What would you rather I did? Scream incoherently? Would that satisfy your ego?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'd rather you shut up and speak only when spoken to."

"Typical," he spat. "All hes done is make you a clone of himself. What kind of a life is that?"

"No, you see, if I were only his clone, you'd _already_ be dead," she said darkly, dropping down to the next roof with a lurch. "Otto doesn't suffer those who take what's his."

"So what _is_ your intent with me, if you aren't a clone?"

"Well, if Otto doen't have any plans for you, and he may well," she warned him cheerfully. "Then I'll probably use you to find where my experiments went. They are very important to me, you see."

"I already told you I wouldn't tell you where they are," he growled.

"If I have to recreate my results from scratch," she said, her voice raising above the wind. "I will not be held responsible for my actions." The actuator tightened again, and her forward progress didn't stop.

"Typical excuse you people always throw at us. It's always someone else's fault, isn't it?" he sneered.  
It tightened further around his chest. "Mostly," she said lightly. "And when it's not, we simply don't care. That's what happens, Hanover, when you step away from the rules."

"It's what you get for stepping away from the rules that no-one else seems to have any problem living with."

"Are you telling me that you've never been frustrated by the rules, Agent Hanover?" she asked, watching him. "Never felt them standing between you and your quarry, and been willing to do anything to get past them?"

His brows met over wide eyes. "Only in the interest of justice!"

"Define justice for me."

"Justice is..." he trailed off, staring, mind whirling. Justice was bringing retribution to those who had taken it upon themselves to view themselves as above the rules that governed society... "It's an integral part of society, it's what keeps us from descending into animals! If someone thinks he's above everyone else and the rules that keep peace, and acts on it, that someone has to be made an example of! We have to have justice or people will do nothing but going about and wronging each other... stealing, injuring, murdering..." he trailed off again. The rules were there for a reason, after all, to keep these kinds of thins from happening, to keep everyday society peaceful and happy. "Without it, there isn't any peace, no life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness, because other people, people like you and Octavius and countless others, will simply strive to take it from other people!"

"'Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?'" she asked, raising one brow as she kept moving forward, the wind whipping her hair back from her face. "'Making examples?' Do you know how cliche you sound? You really ought to run for office. But as for keeping everyone peaceful and happy, that's _not what they want_. People, as a whole, would rather not live in a perfect world. Utopia is practically an epithet. Because utopia is stable. A better word would be stagnant.

"People want _progress_, Hanover, and they want it now. They're not willing to wait to be told that something is safe before they try it. They want newer and better and faster and more.

"Consider this, Hanover. The day before Otto found me in Seattle, I operated on a young man. The governor's son. I did my job to the best of my ability as allowed by the rules. I cut him open, fixed everything I could, and put him back together. When he woke up, he couldn't recognize his mother's face. And the way she looked at me, I knew that the rules had done her a serious injustice. Because I could have ensured that he recognize her, just by breaking them. My Zombie Juice could have saved that boy's mind. How is that justice?" she hissed at last.

He stared at her, a hard, wide-eyed gaze. "Some things have to be sacrificed for the good of everyone. Society can't take care of itself without rules, it can't keep itself safe without rules, because of the fact that people want everything now at the expense of others." He was gathering steam now. "People like you and Octavius are just an example of the 'I want everything now and I want it my way' attitude that the very existence of rules and laws seeks to keep under control! Otherwise you'll just take what you want and leave other people without! There was probably a good reason they wouldn't let you use your serum--what if it failed and killed the boy instead?"

"It would not have failed," she growled. "I had a successful trial before they took my research away. They _knew _it worked, and still, they had to go back, tear it apart and try to prove me wrong. Society can keep its rules. I've given them up. They don't apply to me any more."

"Rules have to apply to everyone, or else there's no point in having them--" he started, but broke off. An automatic response, but one that didn't seem as reassuring as it used to be. Well, of course the rules had to apply to everyone, that was the core of everything he'd learnt. He fell silent, staring at nothing. Ridiculous. He didn't see himself as apart from the rules at all. He certainly didn't see himself as above them. But he remembered that utter, wild frustration at having been held back from doing what he was meant to do.

She narrowed her eyes as they reached the apartment building. "Rules apply to those who accept them. If the masses are too stupid to realize this, then they'll be left behind by the exceptional. Now, be quiet. He might be asleep again." She skittered down from the roof and opened the window with her own hands, climbing in and pulling Hanover behind her.

He did, indeed, remain silent, though his staring gaze told anyone that saw that it was only because he was too lost in thought to speak. The inside of the apartment was dark and he squinted, trying to fathom its insides.

Her eyes adjusted quickly, and she almost dropped Hanover. The couch was empty, the blankets half off it. "Otto?" she called, looking around desperately. "Otto, where are you?"

Hanover looked at her, at the larger set of actuators, at the door, and at the window they'd come in through. It was a typical small apartment, though strangely devoid of anything except the most necessary of furniture--a couch and a couple of chairs. There was no telling what was in any of the other rooms. He frowned, This place wasn't on his map.

She shoved Hanover into a chair, releasing him with a muttered "Stay there," and a final threatening squeeze before moving through into the kitchen, searching.

She found the object of her search quickly enough, slumped face-down on the floor less than a foot from the sink and motionless. His hair covered his face and he had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders that had come loose.

She was at his side in an instant, her actuators helping to roll him over. Checking his pulse, she called his name, keeping the panic out of her voice by sheer force of will. "Otto, wake up, please. Come on, Otto..."

He stirred. "What'm I doing on the floor?" he asked, his eyes opening.

"That's what I want to know," she said, smiling in relief. No new blood showed on his bandages. "What are you doing off that couch?"

"Needed water," he mumbled, trying to haul himself up off the floor. His elbow gave way and he nearly fell again, catching himself. "Jussa simple thing..."

She gave him a hand up, supporting him with the actuators. "I wasn't gone that long, you should have waited for me to get back."

He pulled away, nearly losing his balance. "Nonsense. I'm not an invalid..." He swayed.

She caught him before he could fall. "No, but you're not far from it. Come on, you're going to make it worse."

Growling, he shoved her aside and leaned against the kitchen sink, panting. "I have _told _you ... not to give orders ... like that..."

"I'm the doctor here," she pointed out, hands on her hips. "And you're the one with a hole through his chest. Who do you think should be listening to who?"

He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes narrowed and glaring, and growled. "I will not tolerate such smug, overbearing--" he broke off, coughing again. "Do not--" He spluttered, gasping for breath. "No-one..."

"I'm not being overbearing, I'm being practical. And you're being an idiot. Calm down, or you won't be able to breath." She pulled the syringe and a vial of morphine out. "I got the morphine. Now, please, come back to the couch and lie down so we can do something about the pain."

He whirled, his hand shooting out and grabbing her wrist. "Do not speak to me like that! You haven't learnt--" another coughing fit nearly doubled him over. "--anything ... are you as dense as you appear!"

"Otto, stop it!" she snapped, yanking at his hand. "You're hurting yourself."

He pushed her hand aside and snarled wordlessly, backhanding her across the temple. The blow was badly aimed, not making a clean hit, and he wobbled, losing his balance and falling against the wall, gasping.

Her head snapped back, more from shock than from the blow. He had _never _hit her. She stared at him, not moving, her hand creeping to the side of her face.

He slid to the floor, gasping and pale, coughing weakly, a choking sound, curled inward. "Ngh..." he wheezed. "Ah ... you..." he choked.

"Trouble in paradise?" Hanover drawled, leaning against the wall outside the kitchen.

Octavius glared up at him, unable to speak. "Wh..." he wheezed. "Whhhhh..."

Clair shot Hanover a furious glance, then turned her attention back to Otto. Carefully, she wound two actuators around him and picked him up. "Please," she said carefully. "Let me help you."

Octavius looked at her, his eyes fluttering as he gasped. His head dropped to one side and he acquiesced, allowing himself to be carried. "Wh's he ... doing here...?" he wheezed.

She carried him back out to the living room and put him on the couch, tucking the blanket back around him and perching on the edge, next to him. "I found him snooping around the house by himself. Thought he might have a few answers for me, but he's been unforthcoming."

Hanover leaned against the wall, watching them with a smirk. This was strangely entertaining to him--after fearing these people, they simply showed themselves to be one of the worst couples he'd seen anywhere.

Luckily, though, Octavius didn't see that smirk, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. "He'll tell you.. they never talk ... right away..."

"I'll work on it," she nodded, drawing a dose of morphine into the syringe. "Give me, sorry, _please_, give me your arm."

"With a bedside manner ... like that ... one .. would think you'd ... never had ... patients at all..." he wheezed, pulling his arm out from under the blanket with some difficulty.

"I'm a surgeon," she pointed out. "My patients were unconscious by the time I had to deal with them. It's a lot easier that way." She slipped the needle under the skin and pressed the plunger, then withdrew, rubbing the site with her thumb. "Enough to help with the pain, which will help you breath easier, but not enough to put you to sleep."

"Good thing that..." Octavius wheezed. "Spent enough time ... insensate ... as it is..." he pushed himself up a little further and looked at Hanover. "What're you going ... to do with ... him?"

"That depends," she said, looking over at the man. "If you don't have any plans for him after I get the information I need, I do still need test subjects for the ZJ."

A wheezy laugh resulted, that started him coughing again. "Anything I ... could do to him would ... leave him useless for ... your tests. You can have him."

"Thank you," she said, smiling slightly, her eyes on Hanover. "Hanover, have you ever been diagnosed with any sort of neurological disorder or mental illness?" Her voice sounded as if she wouldn't be surprised if he said yes.

"I woudln't have the job I have if I had, Doctor Holmes," Hanover replied. Octavius chuckled wheezily at that, but said nothing.

"Hmm," she said consideringly. An actuator lashed out and grabbed his wrist, dragging him away from the wall. "I still want to know where my research is."

"And I still won't tell you," Hanover replied, his eyes flicking between her and Octavius.

"I don't _like _the sound of breaking bones," she sighed. Another claw snaked forward to latch onto his ankle. "You sure you can't just spare us both this ordeal and tell me?"

"You think I'm as weak as you are?" Hanover challenged.

Her eyes narrowed at the word "weak" and the claw around his wrist tightened convulsively, twisting. A loud crunching snap sounded and whatever Hanover was going to say next trailed off in a strangled Gaaaaahhhhhh... He went pale and his breath came in loud wheezing gasps. "Agh..." he said.

"I will not be called _weak _by the likes of you," she hissed as the claw twitched his wrist roughly. "Where is my research?"

"Aaaaggghhh..." Hanover grated. "Headquarters ... central bureau... downtown..."

"Thank you," she said civilly. The claw eased slightly, not releasing his wrist. "Where in the building?"

Hanover panted, his fingers twitching and causing more pain. "S-suite .. five-fifteen," he managed, his eyes squeezed shut and his other hand clenched in a fist.

"Wonderful." The claw released his wrist and snaked back to her, curling around her with the other three. And then she remembered something more. "Otto's wetware array. Would it be there too?"

"Probably," came the sour reply as Hanover cradled his wrist against his chest. "Everything's there to be catalogued as evidence."

"Even better." She looked over her shoulder at Otto, mentally tallying their resources. She rather doubted that she could break in and out of a government building on her own, but he would be at least two weeks recovering from the lung shot, probably more, and there was the collarbone and everything else. She sighed. This was going to have to wait. "How long will it be there?" she asked, turning back to Hanover.

"I dunno," he said. "Could be weeks or months. Could be days. Depends on how quickly all the paperwork goes through."

She considered that. "We have time," she concluded. Paperwork was the slowest thing to grind through any large organization. "Now, where to keep you?"

"There's a second bedroom," Octavius mumbled. "You could lock him in there."

"That'll work," she agreed, rising to her feet. She gestured down the hall. "After you, Agent Hanover."

It didn't look as though Hanover was going anywhere for a moment, but he grudgingly rose and, with a venomous look at Clair, walked past her and further into the apartment.

An actuator reached past him and pushed open the farthest door down the hall, revealing a small, nearly empty room. "I'd get some sleep, if I were you," Clair suggested from behind him.

"Why?" he asked as he was led into said room. Its lack of anything other than a sparsely covered bed looked rather depressing, as did the small window that afforded him a view of a parking lot aht reminded him of their seventh-storey location.

"Mostly because you'll need it," she said. "But also because you simply have nothing better to do." This last was delivered with a slight smile as she shut the door behind him, jamming it shut with a well-placed blow to the frame from an actuator.

She came back into the living room, rubbing absently at her own wrist. She sank to the floor next to Otto's couch, leaning against it and sighing deeply.

"Ah, the tribulations of hostage-taking," he murmured after a moment, a wry look on his face. "And here we are without even a television."

She looked up at him, her expression cool. "If you ever strike me again, I shall leave."

He sighed, closing his eyes. "I don't apologise. For anything. Apology would be pointless, anyway. And I don't justify what I do. But I do wonder--why do _you _think I struck you?" He opened his eyes again halfway, looking at her.

"You... object... to me taking control of a situation." she said, watching his eyes.

"And you know this," he replied. "And yet you persist."

"You were hurting yourself," she said, defending herself. "Of course I was going to persist."

"Rather a counterproductive measure, don't you think?" he asked her levelly. "Angering me further because my anger worried you?"

"It's not my fault that you get angry when I try to help," she said sharply.

"Why do you insist on blaming this on me?" he demanded, pushing himself up further. "You knew when you came into this that I am not some docile puppy that you can coddle and lead about! I am not like the emasculated men you seem to want to surround yourself with, intimidated by your intelligence and your occupation!"

"There's a difference between intimidation and common sense, Otto!" she snapped. "You're a genius, for crying out loud! Why can't you figure out that you don't. Know. Everything and accept some help!"

"Help!" he echoed. "There is no help here! The moment I allow myself to rely on someone else for anything is the moment I lose whatever leverage I may have had! Strength is the only thing the ensures survival in the kind of world I live in! Strength and pride--and to rely on anyone for anything is to show a fatal weakness! Weakness is what gets one killed!" He was panting again, now, his eyes staring wildly at hers.

"Exactly how much longer do you think you would have lived without my Zombie Juice?" she shot back. "You relied on me the day we met. No one lives in a vacuum, Otto, not even you!"

He fell silent, breathing hard through his nose, staring with wide eyes and brows drawn.

"_I_ am not a _weakness _to you, Otto," she continued heatedly. "You can rely on me without _losing _anything."

"I would..." he started, still breathing hard, still staring at her. His hand moved almost unconsciously to his wound. "I would lose... my ... self, my..." his eyes drifted away from her. "Lose that which ... held together..."

She reached for his hand, running her thumb over his knuckles. "I told you once that when I looked for what was most important in me, all I found was you." Her eyes went distant, remembering that day, screaming at each other in the rain on the side of the road. "And you told me you felt the same. So maybe, we hold each other together."

He shook his head, his hand coming up to the side of her face, fingers curling slightly in her hair. "We can't," he said, his voice barely audible. He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. "People like us... don't exist to hold other people together."

"People like us can do anything we want to," she said softly. "Nothing is impossible."

He stared at her for a moment, and she could have sworn she saw his eyes become wet before they squinched in an almost helpless grin and he started to laugh, a wheezy sound, his forehead still leaning against hers. His shoulders shook and his face grew red and still he stayed where he was, his forehead leaning against hers and his hand in her hair.

She watched him for a second, then, slowly, joined in, giggling, then chuckling, then laughing outright. She laughed herself breathless before tipping her face up to capture his mouth in a kiss.

His arm wrapped around her, pulling her tight against him, and he returned the kiss almost fiercely. She could feel the fingers of his injured hand at her waist as well, feeling his pulse pounding in his fingers and his lips. His face was wet.

Her hand in his hair, she pressed against him, her chest hitching, her heart pounding against her ribs, strongly enough that he could feel it. She smiled up at him when their lips finally parted, blinking more often than usual.

A touch of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips as well, then he dropped his head and curled around her, silent, his nose in her hair and his arm still tight around her.

She curled against him, warm in his arms, clinging to him as though she'd never let go.

* * *

Sitting on the small, sparse bed in the empty room, Hanover tried to figure out how he could survive the seven-story drop and tried not to listen to the shouting in the other room. He felt less like a hostage and more like the kid of perpetually fighting parents right now, a feeling he was not comfortable with in the least. He crossed to the window and looked out through it, seeing nothing but parking lot and other buildings further off. He froze when he heard the slightly crazed laughter. Shuddered. This was going to be a loooonnnng imprisonment. He only hoped he wasn't going to hear anything more ... primal, otherwise he was certain he'd go mad.

Not that he wouldn't be in good company for such things, he noticed sourly.

* * *

Clair woke up in the apartment's big bed, two weeks after her interrogation of Hanover. She rolled over, smiling at Otto, who was still asleep. Brushing back a strand of his hair that had fallen over his face, she kissed him softly and then sat up, pushing herself up, squashing her pillows behind her against the headboard, and grabbing her notebook off the floor beside the bed. She propped the tattered thing against her knees and chewed on her pen, staring at it. It was the last scene, she thought. She just had this one last scene to write and she would be done.

She'd been working on it since the second day of their residence here, her story. After her own long confinement from injury and the brief excitement, boredom had set in instantly and painfully. She found a notebook on the roof above the apartment and claimed it, meaning to work on what she could remember of the ZJ. But what she had written turned out to be nothing of the sort. She'd tried to hide it from Otto for days, but he'd eventually discovered the rapidly growing novel when she fell asleep over it in bed next to him. She worked on it every waking minute, going through three ball-point pens and having to write two lines to a line to keep from running out of paper, filling it margin to margin. But she knew it was almost finished, now. Just the ending to write.

Cracking open an eye, Octavius watched her write, and smiled. He waited until she was deep into writing, her pen moving switfly across the paper before he sat up and looked over her shoulder.

The rest of the world disappeared as she wrote, words just coming, only half-aware of what they were. And then, when her hand was about to fall off and her brain about to fall out, it was done. She blinked at the page, reached out and corrected a spelling, and let her hand fall. The hero had gone home. The villain had gone to sleep. Who had won, in the end, was up to the reader.

"That looks a little familiar," Octavius murmured in her ear, smiling.

She looked at the page, cocking her head to one side. "Well, I must admit to borrowing certain details from real life."

"They say art imitates life anyway," he murmured contemplatively, leaning on his good arm and reading over her shoulder, squinting at her cramped handwriting. His hair brushed her shoulder.

"It's a bit optimistic to call it art," she said critically. "My right brain is woefully underused."

He cocked an eyebrow at that. "Just the fact that it's being used at all is saying something, you know."

She nodded. "I think I've been listing to the left lately. But now it's done." She looked up at him. "Actually, that's the first project I've completed all year."

He nodded and leaned his chin on her shoulder, apparently either still reading or deep in thought, it was difficult to tell from simply this uncharacteristic show of contemplativeness.

She leaned back against him, letting her eyes slip shut for a moment. "How's your chest this morning?"

"Mmm." He rubbed the wound site unconsciously. "About as well as can be expected," he said after a moment.

"Hm." She left the notebook open on her lap and brought her arms up to lace her fingers together behind his neck. "Is that well enough for some exertion?"

He tilted his head to the side and regarded her with a slight smile. "Maybe. What were you thinking?" he asked, a light in his eyes hinting at what he might be thinking. He drew a finger along her arm.

"Mm?" she said, oblivious. "I was thinking that we should get our stuff back from the FBI before--" She caught his gaze then and stopped, then smiled slowly. "But I'm sure you can come up with a better idea."

"I've got a notion or two," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her, his hair falling forward over her skin.

She returned it, her eyes falling shut as her hands crept up into his hair. "That's a much better idea," she murmured back.

* * *

Hanover was brooding. There was no better word for it. He sat with his back against the wall on his narrow, plain bed. Two weeks, he'd been imprisoned. He'd seen nothing of Octavius, and of Clair, only irregular visits when she remembered to feed him or wanted to taunt him. He'd heard the murmur of conversations, and a few more short, strident fights between the odd pair, but now, only silence came from the room next to his. Which was just the way he liked it.

But then came a creak. He ignored it, his mind on escape, as unlikely as that seemed, until another came. His head came up. Was Octavius getting up? As far as he knew, the little doctor had him on forced bed-rest. That had been the subject of one of the more vocal arguments, at any rate. But then came a sound that he couldn't decipher for a moment. When he did, his stomach made an unpleasant lurch. A moan. Hers. And then one lower, quieter. His. The creaking became rhythmic.

Hanover recoiled from the wall, staring at it. They wouldn't. Then came a cry from her and he jumped back, falling off the bed with a yelp. "Good god, that ain't right..." he muttered as she grew more vocal by the minute. He pulled his pillow off the bed and crammed it over his ears, but he could _still _hear them. Still hear _her_.

"I don't need to hear this!" he yelled at the other room. And then Octavius made a sound and Hanover felt something being to slip. Another, and he lunged to his feet, pounding at the wall. "For the love of God, STOP THAT!" But they didn't, and he kept hammering at the wall with his fist. "CUT IT _OUT_! God, I'm gonna have _nightmares_! Nightmares..." He trailed off as he realized it was suddenly, blessedly silent. "Christ, I wish they'd just killed me..." he muttered, leaning his forehead against the wall.

* * *

"Think we broke him?" Clair murmured, opening her eyes again.

"Hmmm, let me see," Octavius replied, lying comfortable and relaxed against her, despite the wheezing sound of his breath. He thumped a hand against the wall.

"Aaaaugh!" came the reply. This caused Octavius to laugh outright. Clair giggled, and then she couldn't stop laughing as it built. She dragged a pillow over her head to muffle it.

"Snrk," she snorted. "Think he'd be willing to tell us anything we want now, just so long as we don't do that again?"

"Yes!" Octavius squeaked, red-faced. A long wheezing sound followed that, and more laughter.

"Oh, very funny, you two, very _funny!_" Hanover groused, truly affronted. "Jesus H. Christ, you're worse than my old roommate!"

"Oh, come now, Hanover," Clair called from under her pillow. "Tell us what we want to know and we'll leave you your sanity. Who is Spider-, oh wait, we know that one already. Ah, I can't think of anything to ask, can you, Otto?"

"Hmmm... the location of Warehouse 23? The number to Kingpin's Swiss Bank account? The real words to 'Louie, Louie?'" He cackled at that last one.

Clair chuckled, pulling the pillow away and leaning up to kiss Otto, rocking the bed against the wall a few more times.

"Mmmmhmhm" he chortled against her lips, then took a breath and relaxed, returning the kiss slowly. There was nothing from the other room, so he sighed and lay down next to her, closing his eyes.

She played with his hair, rolling over on her side to curl against him. She ran her hand over his torso, gently touching the small depression that was all that was left to see of the bullet hole. "So, better enough to get back to work?"

"I think so, yes," he replied, the slightest hint of a content smile on his face.

She grinned madly and pushed herself up. "Can we go and get my research back today?"

"Now?" he asked incredulously, blinking up at her.

"Well, not _right_ now," she said reluctantly, lying back down next to him. "Sorry, I'm just impatient. So close to being done."

He nodded, curling his fingers in her hair. "We'll get it back," he mumbled, his eyes closed again.

Sighing, she curled against him again and wrapped the blanket around their shoulders. Otto would have to wake up before they could go anywhere.

One arm draped over her. "Mmmfh," he mumbled. "I've no idea--" he yawned, "--why I'm so sleepy... s'morning..."

"You're _always_ sleepy after," she reminded him gently.

"Sleepier 'nusual," he mumbled.

"Do you want to get up, then? Wake yourself up? Or just sleep it off?" She brushed the hair out of his face tenderly.

"Don' think I c'n ... do much else ... but sleep..."

"Sounds good to me." She burrowed deeper into the bed, her forehead against his.

He sighed and let himself drift, quickly losing the worry he felt at the sudden sleepiness. Soon soft buzzing could be heard from him. Clair didn't sleep, but merely watched him, impatient and content all at once.

Meanwhile, in the other room, Hanover sat in a corner, twitching, his hands over his head. "Gonna have nightmares.." he mumbled.

Eventually, impatience did get the better of Clair. She peeled back the blankets and shook Otto's shoulder gently, placing a kiss on the hollow of his shoulder, another on the angle of his jaw. "Come on," she murmered. "It's time to wake up."

"Mmmfh... Hmm?" He forced his eyes open and looked up at her. "Mmm. You aren't very patient, are you?"

"It's been three hours," she said, smirking. "I thought I was remarkably patient."

He yawned. "Three hours. Any more screams from the other room?" He rubbed his hands over his face.

"No, he's been quiet. But I haven't been provoking him anymore." She smirked and extricated herself from the bed, sifting through the clutter that the room had accumulated over the past two weeks to find her skirt and a shirt of her own.

Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned cavernously, the blanket bunched around his waist and still covering his legs, which curled inward.

She looked up to see that, and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a giggle, her eyes bright.

He stopped in mid-stretch, his arms over his head. "What're you giggling at?" he asked, eyeing her sidelong.

"Just you," she said innocently, tying her skirt at her hip. "You're cute when you're half-awake."

"Bah," he replied, and threw a pillow at her. "There is nothing 'cute' about me."

She caught it and threw it back. "Sure there is. You just have to know how to look. Your hair's gone all fluffy again."

His hands unconsciously smoothed it down. "It's not fluffy, it's just... rumpled."

She knelt on the bed behind him, combing his hair back with practiced fingers. "It was fluffy, Otto, admit it."

His eyes slipped shut. "You manipulative woman," he murmured. "You know I can't object when you do that."

She leaned forward to kiss the spot behind his ear, murmuring, "Why do you think I do it?"

"Mmmm," he said. "I don't know whether to be insulted that you can even do that, or proud of how far you've come." He grinned wolfishly.

"I'd go with pride," she said, still playing with his hair. "Remember that little mouse of a med student you kidnapped seven years and change ago?"

"Vaguely," he said, leaning forward to kiss her.

"Somehow," she said before kissing him, long and deep. "Somehow," she continued when they broke apart. "You turned her into me."

"And people say I can do no good," he murmured, one hand slipping into her hair.

"Who says that?" she said softly, grinning. "Point them out and I'll test my ZJ on them and fix their way of thinking."

"I don't know if you've got enough of it for all of them," he chuckled

"Well, we'll start with Jameson. Maybe it'll spread from there."

"If it'll spread from anyone, it'll spread from him."

She kissed him again, and slipped off the bed once more. Summoning her actuators from where they lay, coiled in a pile with his where they'd left them, she fastened the harness and paused a beat before threading her sweater on over them. He watched her do this, still sitting on the bed. Every once in a while it struck him as a little ... odd, seeing someone else entirely do the same thing he'd been doing for years. A strange, dislocated feeling. He cocked his head to one side and regarded her as she threaded her actuators through her sweater.

She brushed her hair back from her face, tying it back with a band to keep it out of her eyes. "Once I get my equipment back, I just need to get that sequence from Oscorp, test it, and I'll be ready to change Jameson's way of thinking. Or speaking." She looked back at Otto, grinning. "Osborn will regret stealing from me."

"How do you plan to do all this?" he asked, sitting back and watching her.

"I've looked up the building," she said. "It's easily climbed, and the windows aren't alarmed, as far as I could find. Suite five-fifteen is on the north side. There's one duty officer stationed in the room, but he'll just be a desk man."

"What of the rest of the security of the building?" he asked, still watching her. "The visibility in getting there? Where will you take everything you steal back from there? There isn't enough room, here."

"It's dark," she said, a little defensively. "No one will see us. And the rest of the building... I don't know. I'm limited to what I could hunt down online. It's reliable, I made sure, but limited."

"Then you haven't been hunting thoroughly enough," he replied, finally leaving the bed, pulling on his pants, and making his way to the next room wherein sat the computer Clair had stolen only a few days ago. Turning it on, he looked at her as she walked into the room after him.

"I'm not a hacker," she explained. "I know medical equipment, and the programming that goes with them, and that's really it. This thing-" she tapped the computer. "Is beyond my usual pale."

"Then you'd best become accustomed to it," he replied. "You can't rely very long on the excuse that it isn't something you're used to. No-where is change and adaptation more key to survival than in a life such as this." A few keystrokes brought up a window across which almost incomprehensible code flickered.

She looked at him, the light from the screen flickering in his goggles, and then at the screen. "I'll learn," she said, watching. But the code meant nothing to her, except for a few words here and there. "What is this?"

"This will get us into the building's computer system," he replied. He didn't say much after that, entering a few commands here and there, until a list of things appeared on the screen, though which he quickly searched, bringing up building plans and a second window that held what looked like a schedule. A third window came up, showing what looked like a manifest or maybe a list of the buildings' offices. He leaned back and looked at her wordlessly. Initiative test time, again, it seemed.

She examined the data silently for a moment, chewing on her lip, taking the mouse and switching between the windows. "Shift schedules, floor plan, office assignments." She saw Hanover's name, but that was irrelevant. "If we go in at 9:30," she said slowly... "Most of the staff on that floor will have come off their shift and left, or else be on break. And if we go in here..." She tapped a window drawn on the floor plan for the fifteenth floor. "We shouldn't come across any alarms until we get to this corridor, here. That would give us the most time."

A pause. He nodded once. "And what do you plan to retrieve and where will you take it?" There almost seemed a tone of challenge in his voice.

She sat back on her actuators. "I need all of my research notes, the harddrive of my computer, and the serum and viral forms." She'd put thought into that, deciding what she could carry. "If I can do it, I'd like my Tesla scanner as well, but I don't know if I can carry that, too."  
"And my microscope."

Had she been able to see his eyes, she would have seen him blink slowly at her. "Go on," he said.

"As for where, I was going to ask you. You said you have more places around the city. Would any of them work for a lab for this?"

He looked up at her, regarding her for a long moment. "Possibly," he said.

She grew impatient with this test of his. "Where would the best one be?" she asked patiently.

He looked at the computer again. Reached out and accessed a few more windows, bringing up a map of the city. After taking his time searching across the map, he finally settled on an area Northside. "This one should work, though I haven't been there in a long time."

"Good," she said, nodding a confirmation. "And that's..." she looked over the map. "The HQ is here, so it's not too far." She straightened, looking out the window. It was raining, or maybe snowing, or both. Just grey. "Lovely."

"The weather could be worse. It could be snowing," he observed sourly, as though recalling experience.

"Ugh." She shuddered delicately. "The best thing about Seattle was its warm winters. Weather like this almost makes me miss it."

"You'll definitely miss it. Winter here is not conducive to the kind of work we do," he said, leaving the computer chair and returning to the bedroom to find a shirt.

"Speaking from experience?" she asked slyly, following him again and leaning against the door frame. "You mean you don't just hibernate all winter?"

He made a short, amused sound at that. "You make me sound like some kind of wild animal."

"Hey, nothing wrong with hibernating. I always wished I could, back when I was a student." She shrugged, a gesture which transfered itself through the actuators into a ripple. "These are probably hell to wear if they get very cold."

"You don't know the half of it," he growled. "Once I scaled the Empire State building in a snowstorm, lugging an EMP generator. I had snow in my sunglasses and icicles on my actuators by the time I got to the top."

She stifled a laugh at the image. "What in the world were you doing with an EMP generator on the Empire State Building?"

He pulled a shirt out of a pile of what was probably clean clothing, they'd both been cooped up in that place too long to tell. "It was all part of a grand master plan to destroy the economy. The EMP generator needed to be at a high location so that the pulse would knock out as many computers as it could."

"Just a wild guess, that didn't work?" she asked, eyebrows raised sympathetically. "Spider-Man?"

"Among other people. It wasn't the best-conceived of plans anyway."

"What was the point of destroying the economy?"

"Call it an investiture in chaos," Octavius replied sourly. His actuators came snaking past her and into the room, and he fastened them on, threading them through the shirt and buttoning it.

"Well, if chaos is worth climbing the Empire State Building in a snowstorm..." she said lightly. "Was this back when you were working with Electro and Mysterio and that lot?" She couldn't keep a straight face at the names, she never could.

"Yes," he harrumphed. "And no, chaos wasn't really worth climbing the Empire State Building in a snowstorm. Getting the better of the investor, however, was." He allowed himself a slight smile at the memory, however vague.

"And who was that?" she asked leadingly. She liked hearing stories from his rather complicated past, but sometimes they had to be pried out piece by piece.

"A dreadful boor who called himself 'The Gentleman.' He was insanely, unbeleivably rich, ruthless, coldhearted, and devious. A perfect combination. However, he was also terribly unwise in that he made too many enemies that he didn't plan for. He failed to make enough contingencies." He raised his eyebrows. "Which is why he's dead, now."

"Ah," she said, placing the incident. "I have an article about that in my scrapbook. _Had_ an article. They didn't mention the snowstorm, though."

"Of course not," Octavius replied. "Unless, of course, it pertained to the inclement conditions within the Bugle office itself." he smirked.

"Good point," she accedded. "Now that I think about it, Jameson's been around forever. Everything any of the common public knows about you, _he's_ published."

Octavius nodded, locating his coat. "Indeed," he said, a little distractedly.

"I wonder really how much he's shaped public opinion in this city over the years," she continued. "I mean, people _still_ distrust Spider-Man because of his paper, and he's been around for ages too." She smiled. "Not that I'm complaining about _that_."

"Mmm. I suppose it would be quite a subject of study," he reploied vaguely.

"Something on your mind?" she asked, seeing his distraction.

"Hm? Oh, simply... remembring a few things."

"Anything you can tell me about?" She moved into the room, sitting on the bed.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "When did you become my therapist?" he asked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

"Well, it is my job to keep you sane," she said, smiling. "More or less."

He looked out the window. "I suppose it is," he said vaguely.

"So what is it?" she persisted gently.

He looked at her again, still appearing distracted. "Hm? Oh. It's nothing important. The house I found for the new base is simply one I'd had for quite a while, is all. I'd had it watched for me ..." he gave a short laugh. "... by Parker's aunt, no less."

"May, right?" she asked. "Parker doesn't know that it's yours, does he?"

"Oh, he did, but I doubt he remembers."

"Let's hope not," she said, stepping back from where she'd been leaning on his chair. "It would be incredibly inconvenient if he did something like check it on his regular patrols.""I sincerely doubt he does that. His path of patrol has shifted away from that area by now."

"That's right, you keep track. Are we ready to go, then?"

He looked at the door to the room in which Hanover was kept. "Our prisoner has been strangely quiet."

She followed his gaze. He was right. After two weeks of his prattle, the silence was a marked change. "He has, hasn't he? We should go and check on that."

One actuator reached out and turned the knob, and he followed it, looking inside the door. Hanover sat on the bed, glaring back at him.

She stepped past Otto, standing just in front of him. "Awfully quiet all of a sudden, Hanover," she said conversationally.

"Maybe I'm just trying to get the horror of the last half hour or so out of my head," he replied acidly

She snerked slightly at that. "I'm sorry," she said insincerly. "Did we wake you up?"

Hanover scowled heavily. "No, I was awake. Throughout the _whole_ thing. You make me sick." He glared at Octavius, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

She raised only one eyebrow. "Act like an adult, Hanover."

"I could ask the same of you two, I daresay that was noisier than necessary."

"Fun, though," she smirked, looking back and up at Otto.

Octavius smiled down at her and that smile caused Hanover to shudder and ball his fists up.

"I'm sure it won't be _fun_ for much longer, Doctor Holmes."

"Mm?" She looked back at Hanover. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that you can't expect any kind of relations with someone like _him_ to remain pleasant or good," he replied, pointing at Octavius. "Someone like him is incapable of..." he trailed of, looking away with a sour look on his face.

She frowned at him. "You haven't the faintest idea what he is capable of," she warned, her actuators rising like a cat's hackles around her.

He grinned at that, a grin a little frayed around the edges. "Oh, I know very well what he's capable of, Doctor Holmes. I can see things clearly, because at least I'm not blinded by hormones and childish fantasies."

The frown deepened into a glower. "I'm no child, Hanover, nor am I some hormone-driven tragic heroine. I don't need protected, I don't need rescued, and I never did."

"I've noticed this," Hanover replied. "Consider yourself warned, Doctor Holmes."

"I certainly don't need a warning from you, Hanover," she snapped. "I'm not the one in danger here."

"Aren't you?" he asked, his gaze shifting to Octavius and staying there. "Not from where I sit."

"You don't know anything, no matter how superior you act," she growled. "Even the damn _bug _has hurt me more than Otto ever would!" She realized in some part of her mind that she was probably saying more than she should.

"Give it time, Doctor Holmes," Hanover replied.

"I've had enough of this," Octavius interjected. "This squabbling is pointless."

"What's the matter Octavius? Upset that I see through you?" Hanover asked.

Clair glared at him, but didn't rise to the bait again.

"You can predict all you want, Hanover. You can't decide the future any more than anyone else can. We will return shortly. If you try to escape, you will be found."

Clair cast a final scowl back at the agent and turned, leaving the room. Going into the living room, she looked at the floor plans that were still on the computer, memorizing them.  
She could still hear Octavius talking to Hanover.

"You sound so sure of yourself, Octavius," Hanover sneered.

"It's not that difficult a thing, really. I know you will stay here, because I've made certain that you will stay here. The door has exterior locks on that that you can't reach from the inside, and there's no way to scale the wall outside." A short _heh_ of amusement. "At least not for you."

"Laugh while you can, Octavius," Hanover growled. "I won't let you do this to her."

"It's none of your concern any more, Hanover," Octavius replied, shutting the door.

She kept her eyes on the screen as he came back towards the living room. "I can't stand that man," she commented casually.

"Hmm," he said softly. "We should get going." He headed to the window, opening it and letting in a blast of frigid air.

She pulled her coat tightly around herself before slipping out, climbing up the building and onto the roof. It was rain, at least, rather than snow, but it was still unpleasant.

The freezing rain pattered against his face as Octavius climbed out after her, ducking his head further into his collar. He stood behind her on the roof. "It's this way, he said, heading in the direction of the government building in question.

She pulled her collar up and nodded, following him over the rooftops and into down-town. The headquarters stood taller than its neighbors, and only a few windows were lit. Only one on the fifteenth floor, and it was on the other side of the building than their target. She hung from the building next to it, making sure she hadn't missed seeing anything important.

He hung below her, and the wind blew, sending his hair flapping and causing him to duck his head back down into his collar, coughing, a rattling sound. There was a pause before he caught his breath, then he reached out two actuators, pulling him to the target building. He looked in through the window, narrowing his eyes at the darkened interior. It looked like the right place. He stifled another cough.

She made the crossing, with a little more difficulty and a lot less grace, since her actuators were smaller than his. Looking in the window, she compared it to the map she now had in her head. She looked over at him at the muffled cough, but then back into the window. "Through that door, and across the hall," she repeated to herself.

He fought to stifle more coughing, and nodded, reaching out to open the window. It was locked, and he growled, the growl breaking off into oughtright coughing for another moment before he simply drew back and actuator claw and punched a hole in the glass, hooking the claws around the lock, pulling it out, and pulling the window open. He disappeared into the building, the black of his hair and longcoat becoming lost in the shadows.

She slipped in after him, being as quiet as she could despite the noise already made by the broken glass. The door at the far end of the long room proved to be unlocked, but before she could open it, someone else did. She pulled back, almost as startled as the woman who appeared on the other side. She hid that immediately when she recognized Hanover's partner, covering it with an expression of distaste. "Oh, it's you," she said impatiently, taking advantage of her surprise to knock her back, out of the doorway.

With a glance back at Clair, Octavius stepped out of the room and into the hallway, one tentacle reaching out to hold Martin down as he looked back and forth, getting his bearings. Coughing again, he picked her up even as she reached for her gun, and whacked her head soundly against the wall with a _crack._ Her gun fell from nerveless fingers and she slumped to the floor even as Octavius walked past her and down the hall, stifling more coughing.

She looked back at Martin for a moment, then up at Otto as she followed him. His coughing was beginning to worry her, even through the anxiety about the job, but she didn't say anything to him, knowing it would be rebuffed.

The room in question was unremarkable, a blank door marked "Evidence" with an "Authorized entry only" label below that and a coded lock. Octavius stopped in front of the door, examined the lock, and stifled another fit of coughing that ended with a rather angry growl. Already, his chest felt as though it were full of rattling, flapping things, and this almost involuntary coughing was only making it worse. One actuator claw pulled the code lock from its housing and dropped it to the floor. He pushed the door open without a second's hesitation, though he was sure that action had probably triggered alerts all over their security grid.

She frowned at his back. It had not been wise on her part to choose tonight, not with his lung still half-healed. But it was too late for that thought now. She ducked ahead of him into the room, looking around in the dim light from the exit sign above the door that they had just come in. It was another long room, crowded with banks of shelves and lockers. She prowlded down the aisle until she found three large cabinents with the same identifying numbers on them. She broked the first one open with her actuators, revealing boxes and boxes of her things, all stowed and labelled in plastic bags.

The sound of far off, barely-audible voices caused Octavius to turn, looking down the hallway. "Quickly," he rasped. "Take what you need and let's go." He stepped backward into the hallway and raised his actuators, waiting.

She nodded once and began to sort through the boxes hastily, taking only what was crucial and stuffing it into a bag, then broke open the other two cabinets, finding her electron microscope and her scanner. She wound one actuator around both of them, picked up the box of her notes in her own arms, and the bag of everything else in another actuator. "I have it," she said, hearing now what he had heard first. "Let's get out of here."

The clatter of shoes against the floor could be heard and several uniformed individuals came round the corner to Octavius' left, pointing their weapons and shouting. More appeared from the right.

He looked between them, and again everything went completely still for a beat, two beats, three--

One actuator shot into the midst of them, picking one up and sweeping him through the crowd, even as they fired, while the other punched past the crowd to his right, knocking a few over and shattering the window. That actuator was joined by another, as they curled round randomagents, slamming them against their fellows or the walls. The gunshots missed horribly even as the ones remaining tried to fire on Octavius or even scrambled to get out of the way.

Clair headed for the window, slowed down by what she was carrying. One shot pinged off her actuator, and she looked back at the agent who had fired just in time to see him knocked over by one thrown by Otto. She looked back ahead to find Martin in her way, unsteady on her feet but with a gun in her hand. Her free actuators curled in front of her defensively. "Out of my way," she growled. Martin fired, and missed, and Clair lashed out with one actuator, knocking her back again, harder this time. Martin slumped against the wall and stayed down.

Octavius followed behind her to the window, even as more bullets pinged off his actuators. He swept more of them out of the way, turning and concentrating on the ones behind them even as he pushed Clair to the window. "Move!" He shouted, narrowly missing being shot and grabbing the one who fired, throwing him into the crowd of remaining agents. More were grabbed and flung, and he backed up toward the window.

Clair could hear him breathing heavily behind her, before a thud interrupted that sound and she turned to see one of the security people, a burly man more than a head taller than Octavius, had gotten past the actuators and knocked him over, wrestling him to the floor. He'd managed to get a hold of Octavius' real arms, yanking them behind his back until one popped with a loud _snap._ Two actuators curled in and yanked him from Octavius' back, throwing him with enough force to send him crashing through a wall. But it took a moment for Octavius to get up again, wheezing and coughing. The others converged on him.

Immediately, Clair dropped everything that she was carrying and braced herself with one actuator while the other three arrowed into the crowd of agents, throwing them aside one after another until Otto had a clearer path. "Come on!" she shouted, snatching a gun away from one agent and hitting him over the head with it. He hauled himself up, reaching out to grab some of the things she'd dropped, staggering against the wall before pushing himself through it, his actuators carrying him up the side of the building.

She backed up, then grabbed the last of what she'd come for and swung out the window and up. A few shots were fired after them, but the angle was wrong and they reached the roof without further injury.

She found him crumpled against a duct, a huddled black shape that coughed and wheezed horribly. His hair obscured most of his face in black clumps, and he apparead to have his arms wrapped around himself, actuators curled inward, a box and several notebooks on the floor nearby. A breeze flapped the pages of one of the notebooks and still he coughed, the sound rattling deep in his chest.

She landed on her own feet on the roof and ran over to him, dropping everything as she knelt next to him. The sound of his cough scared her. Brushing his hair back to feel his forehead, she found it hotter even than usual.

Under his hair, his face was red. He flinched at her touch, and laboured to catch his breath, one hand over his mouth, the other at his chest, now. He spluttered and fought to stifle the coughing, but gasping the frigid air didn't help. Curling in further, another fit left him breathless.

She pulled off her hat and held it in front of his mouth, so his breath could warm the air before he breathed it in. The cold had to be wreaking havok with his lungs. She cursed herself internally for her impatience. "Come on, Otto," she said anxiously. "We can't stay here. Got to get you somewhere warm."

"Nnn-nnuhh.." he spluttered, his coughing lessening but still worrisome. His hand curled round her wrist, burning hot. "Ngheh... Easier... said ... than done..." he broke off in another fit, but his actuators lifted him, swayed, and started to clank off in the direction of the apartment they'd left. He had pulled the hat from her fingers and pressed it to his mouth and nose.

She gathered up her spilled property and followed, staying very near him. They were both moving rather slower than usual, her with her load and him with his coughing.

He continued onward, saying nothing, stifling his coughing as best he could. His movement slowed visibly at times as he struggled to breathe.

She stayed with him, watching him more often than where she was going, trusting the actuators to find secure footing with little guidance from her.

When they reached the apartment, she opened the window and waited for him to go in before her.

He made his way along the wall and finally crawled in through the window, ending up sitting on the floor and coughing so hard that his shoulders jerked. He leaned against the wall.

She shut the window and reached an actuator over to turn up the heat as high as it went. Setting her supplies down, she grabbed a blanket off the couch and draped it around him as best she could with his actuators in the way.

He pushed at her hands and at the blanket. "What're you..." he wheezed.

She sat back on her heels. "You're sick, Otto. You've got a fever and you're about to cough your lungs out. Please, just let me help you."

"Nnnh. Just... need to ... rest a moment..." But he didn't fight her any further, allowing her to wrap him in the blanket. His hair clung wetly to his head, and his face was still red from coughing.

She got up and fetched a towel from the bathroom, bringing it out and rubbing his head dry. They were both soaking wet, which didn't help matters at all.

He'd closed his eyes, still coughing tiredly, his breath rattling faintly until he coughed again. He plucked the goggles from his eyes and rubbed them. "Mmnnnh... How'd this happen... s'fast?"

"Wet air can cause congestion really fast, and your lungs aren't all the way healed." she said softly. "We shouldn't have gone out in the rain. I should have waited for a better night."

His eyes flickered open about halfway and he looked at her. "N'such thing... as 'waiting for a better night' ... with these... things..." More coughing. He rubbed his chest almost absently with one hand. "'S a risk you take."

"There would have been nothing wrong with waiting a night or two for this," she pointed out.

He finally managed to take at least a somewhat deep breath. "We'd decided on a course of action," he said slowly, his voice raspy. "One doesn't call it on account of inclement weather."

"This from the man who hauled an EMP generator up the Empire State building in a snowstorm," she muttered to herself. She stood, peeling her sopping coat off and draping it over a chair. "Dry clothes might help," she suggested. "And I'm going to make some tea, if you want some. Caffeine helps open the bronchial passages."

"Mmm," he replied. "I suppose I ought." He stood, wobbling. His actuators held him up as he unbuttoned his coat and shirt.

Her shirt clung to her damply as she headed in to the kitchen and set water to boil, hunting her favorite tea out of the cupboard and measuring it into two mugs. "Do you want sugar in yours?" she called to him.

More coughing. He relived himself of the coat and shirt and sat on the couch, working on his shoes. "Yes. The usual."

She added three large spoonfuls of sugar to each of them, poured the boiling water over it and brought his cup out to him, sipping her own while her actuators picked up the stuff she had dropped on entry, setting it all neatly upright.

He took the teacup, holding it under his nose and breathing the steam. He'd only ever drunk her tea maybe a few times, remembering how powerfully caffeinated it was. He wondered there'd even be a point to drinking it, as all he wanted to do at that moment was sleep. But the scent seeped into his nose and the steam relaxed his chest. He sipped it anyway.

She sank down onto the couch next to him, wrapping her hands around the mug and feeling it chase the chill out of her fingers. She took a long sip and sighed. "Any better?"

"Mmmmh," he replied, rubbing his eyes again. "Tolerable." When he opened them again, she could see they were strangely bloodshot, the irises glittering darkly in the dim light. He looked at her belongings, which had been dumped on the floor just inside the window, and then at her. He took a breath to speak, but another coughing fit resulted, instead.

She set her half-drunk tea aside on th floor next to the end of the couch. "Maybe you should go to bed," she suggested, touching his face again to guage his fever.

"Nnn," he replied. "Been sleeping too much lately. It seems all I ever do is sleep."

"You're healing still," she said reasonably. "It's good for you."

"Waste of time," he muttered, and coughed again.

"I agree entirely," she said, smiling. "But what else do you have to be doing right now?"

He looked about to reply to that. "Something, I'm sure."

She raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the issue any farther. Instead, she pulled over the bag of her retrieved supplies and rummaged through it until she found the plastic box she was looking for. "This might make you feel better," she said, holding it up. "Your wetware."

A slight smile crossed his features. He plucked it from her hand with one actuator and brought it close to look at, opening it. "Mmm," he said, and nodded. "It does, actually. Somewhat. Psychologically, anyway."

"It was in the cabinet with my things," she said, smiling. "I thought you'd want it back." She dipped back into the bag. "I got some of your tools, too, though I know I didn't get all of them."

He nodded, watching her as she pulled things out of bags and arranged them on the floor. He felt terribly hot and peeled the blanket off. Then as an afterthought, he started unfastening his actuators.

She arranged her things carefully, sorting them out so she could see if she'd missed anything important. All the notebooks were there, and she smiled to see most of her stock of Zombie Juice. Two vials were missing, she thought, though she wasn't sure of the count. All her viral forms were there, and enough of her base supplies that she could make more. But she didn't see her disks anywhere... The only thing in them that wasn't in her paper notes were the scans of Spider-Man's brain, though, so while irritating, this wouldn't set her back. "I got everything important and irreplaceable," she said at last, looking over her shoulder at him.

He didn't reply to that, instead working doggedly at detaching the actuators. When they disconnected, he shuddered violently, a quiet, stifled sound escaping him. He pushed them off the couch where they landed on the floor with a loud clattering thump. She couldn't recall seeing him that careless with them before. He leaned back onto the couch with an uncomfortable, "Mmfh," sound.

"You really do look like you should go to bed," she said, standing up and putting a double handful of test tubes on the computer desk.

He coughed a few more times, tiredly, and slitted his eyes open, looking at her. His cheeks were red, something one normally didn't see. "Nnn," he mumbled. He shifted again, draping himself along the couch on his stomach.

She shook her head, tempted to simply pick him up and carry him to the bedroom, but that would only make him a more intractable patient than he already was. Instead, she just picked up the blanket and draped it over him. His color and fever were worrying her, as was the cough.

He rolled over onto his back, the blanket winding around him, and he pushed at it. Only then did he open his eyes again, looking up at her. He coughed yet again, and looked clearly tired and irritated at it.

She sat on the couch next to him, listening intently to his breathing. It was only faintly congested, except when he coughed. "I think you've got an infection," she said. "I'd need antibiotics to treat it. If I go out to get them, will you stay here, lying down, and stay wrapped up?"

"Mmmfh," he mumbled. "Where would I go?"

"I don't want you getting up," she said, reaching an actuator around into the kitchen and getting a cold, wet wash cloth. Transferring it to her hand, she folded it and placed it across his forehead, brushing his hair back. "This might help you feel better," she said. "And I'm willing to bet, the more you stay still, the less you'll cough."

He sighed and closed his eyes at the sensation of the cold water against his head. "Convincing argument," he mumbled, coughed, and continued. "Already decided to stay here."

"Good," she said, her fingers lingering in his hair for a moment before she stood up, pulling on her still-damp coat again. "There's a pharmacy a few streets over," she said. "They'll have a broad-spectrum antibiotic. I'll be back soon."

He nodded. "Mmmm," was all he said. The cold water on his forehead seemed to calm him somewhat, and he closed his eyes, already half-dozing, floating in that odd state between sleep and wakefulness.

She buttoned her coat and fetched her hat from where he'd dropped it, pulling it down over her ears before going to check on Hanover. She hadn't heard him since they got back, so she thought it a good idea. She knocked on his door, then flipped the lock and opened it. Sretched out on the bed, Hanover blinked irritably up at her. "What?"

"Just checking that you hadn't done anything stupid, like escape," she said. "Sorry I woke you."

"Oh, do give me some credit, Doctor Holmes, I'm not gonna break my neck trying to escape."

"I don't give you much credit at all," she said, grinning. "Good night, then. Oh, and thank you for your information. I owe you some appreciation for the fact that I now have my materials back."

"I'm so glad," he muttered and rolled over, facing away from her.

"Night, then," she said, closing the door and locking it again. She crossed the living room again, looking at Otto, who appeared to be asleep, before sliding the window open and climbing out.

It had almost stopped raining by the time she got back, breathless with exhileration and the cold. It may have been a small errand, but it was her first solo venture in crime. She'd broken into the pharmacy, found what she needed, and escaped onto the rooftops before she could even hear the sirens summoned by the building's alarm. She shook the water out of her hair and shut the window behind her, checking immediately on Otto.

He was still asleep, cheeks still red, but he at least seemed relaxed.

She pulled the anti-biotics and painkillers that she had stolen out of her pockets and set them on the table, arranging them in a neat line, but she didn't wake him up just yet. While he was asleep, he wasn't coughing, which was a good thing. She pulled his blanket straighter and then stepped back, shedding her coat and the sweater under it before unbuckling her actuators. She clenched her teeth as they withdrew, and then rolled her shoulders to ease the tension that they always left behind before pulling her sweater back on. Then she tapped his shoulder. "Otto, wake up." He sighed, but didn't stir, his eyes moving under the lids.

She shook his shoulder, calling a little louder. She always hated waking him up, because it was difficult. He always seemed very reluctant to change states.

"Mmmmhh," he finally said, his eyes flickering open groggily. He blinked up at her. "How long was I out?" he mumbled.

"Less than half an hour," she said. "I just got back. If you'll sit up, I brought you some painkillers along with the antibiotics. It should help." She went and poured him a glass of water, getting out a dose of each of the medications.

He pushed himself up, flopping against the back of the couch and pulling the cloth from his forehead, blinking at it before returning his attention to her.

She handed him the glass, and the pills, two white, two pink, and sank onto the couch next to him. She was tired too, she realized.

Slowly, he swallowed them and leaned back, turning to look at her, his head tilted sideways to lean against the back of the couch.

She rubbed her eyes and looked at her things, still arranged all over the floor. "If you'll give me directions, I'll take it all to the other place tomorrow so I can get set up and started."

"Now?" he asked blearily.

"No," she said, getting up again and going over to her Tesla scanner to see that the recent repairs hadn't been damaged by the indifferent handling she was sure it had recieved by the police. "Tomorrow. Go back to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

"Nnn. I'll go with you," he mumbled.

She looked over at him. "Only if it's dry. Give yourself a chance to recover, at least."

"Either I go with you no matter what, or you wait until I'm well," he muttered, settling back in the couch. His cheeks were less red, but it was till obvious that he was fevered.

She looked at him flatly. "I can get this set up just fine on my own."

He coughed tiredly again, forcing his eyes open. "You'll need help."

"No," she said, looking over the stuff again. "I won't. I can carry this, or I'll make two trips. You just need to take it easy for a day or two."

He coughed harder. "Tell me, what drives this sometimes suicidal urge to prove your independence?"

"I hardly see anything suicidal about it," she said, irritated. "I took care of myself as a woman living alone in this city for years before I even met you. I can still do things for myself and by myself."

He sighed, obviously trying to keep himself calm. "You lived alone in this city living an _ordinary_ life, which I daresay is far less dangerous than the one you're living now."

"Hardly," she laughed. "Look at me, Otto. I'm the size of a child. Muggers and gangs posed just as much threat to me then as police and the bug do now. And now at least I have something better than a can of pepper spray to defend myself with. I broke into the pharmacy tonight just fine without your help, didn't I?"

He lowered his head a fraction, glittering black eyes staring at her as he growled quietly in his throat. "Do what you will, then," he growled at last. He curled up further under the blanket and watched her.

She ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back from her face and sighing. "I'm not doing anything tonight. Are you going to sleep there, or do you want to come to bed with me?"

"Hnnn," he rumbled, watching her through slitted eyes.

Her expression softened slightly. "Does it bother you that much if I go out alone?"

He blinked, his eyes barely open. After a moment, he finally spoke. "Yes."

She leaned against the doorway, just looking at him. "Why?"

Another pause, and he looked away. "I won't be there. I always keep my promises, you know," he muttered softly.

That brought her up short. "I know," she murmured. "But if you protect me from everything, then nothing will ever happen to me. And that's not how anyone wants to live."

He sighed slowly, losing his eyes, and appeared to sink further into the couch. "Can't lose you," he mumbled.

She crossed the room back to him, taking his hands. "You won't," she assured him softly. "Come to bed, Otto, you'll sleep better there. And I'll still be there when you wake up."

His fingers curled around hers, and in his apparent weariness, his grip was almost as bad as it had been a year ago when he'd shown up on her doorstep. After a beat, he sighed, then pushed himself upright, leaving the couch and slowly making his way to the bedroom.

She went at his pace, only letting go to cross around to her side of the bed and slip out of her still-slightly-wet clothes before sliding under the mound of blankets with him, curling against his side.

He sighed, curling round her, even hotter than usual, his arms around her and his fingers curled in her hair. It almost felt as though he was loathe to let go.

"Otto," she whispered, almost at the edge of sleep. "Why are you so afraid that you'll lose me?"

"Lost people before. Not again," he mumbled into her hair."I'm not going anywhere," she murmured back, then took a deep breath and was still, just breathing slowly in his arms.

He mumbled something that might have sounded like, _She said that, too,_ but it was too difficult to make out. He grew still and quiet, his eyes closed and his breathing soft.


	9. May

Unreasonable Addiction III

Chapter 9 - May

By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth

* * *

Clair woke up reluctantly the next morning, pulling the quilt over her head to escape the sunlight coming in through the window. Their activity yesterday morning must have disturbed it, because it, like all other curtains in the apartment, was generally kept tightly shut. She burrowed deeper into the blankets, determined not to be awake yet. Otto made a vague snurfing noise at that, stirred and settled back in. Two seconds later, he opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again. A low growl became an irritated groan. "Your feet are _frigid._" 

She smiled, not opening her eyes again. "Good thing you generate enough heat for two, then." She had disappeared completely under the blankets, so her voice was muffled.

He coughed a few times, and dug the side of his head further into the pillow, his arms tightening around her so that he was almost draped over her. He tried to ignore the little cold spots that her feet made. She wiggled her toes against his shins and decided very reluctantly that she was awake. She also decided that she wasn't going to do a thing about it. Not just yet.

"Mmmm," Otto rumbled softly. "Are you that cold?" he shifted until he had her feet between his calves, and curled around her, burying her further into the blanket.

"'M _always_ cold," she mumbled, snuggling against him. She could feel the amused _heh _sound that he made at that. He stayed curled around her and didn't say anything else. She savoured his warmth for a long time before pushing the blankets off her head and looking up at his face, her hair in a wild halo around her own. "Do you feel any better this morning?"

He opened his eyes, slits of deep black circles, and looked down at her. "Somewhat, yes," he mumbled. "Breathing is easier."

"Do you want another painkiller?" she offered. "I have more."

He closed his eyes again, and they burned a little less. "That might be good," he mumbled. He hated waking up--his eyes burned and his voice was weak and raspy, and he felt so _heavy._

She untangled herself from him and the blankets, pulling one off the bed to wrap around herself as she went out and fetched the pills and a glass of water, bringing them both back with her. She sat on his edge of the bed and waited for him to sit up. One eye cracked open and he looked at her, seeing her watching him. After a moment, he sat up and rubbed his face, reaching out a hand for the pills and the glass, managing to grasp them and swallow the little things. The cool water felt good.

She felt his forehead with the back of her fingers, finding it still too hot for her liking. She handed him the other two pills in her hand. "You're still sick. Any way I can persuade you to stay in bed today?"

He swollowed the other pills--far, far too many of them in his opinion, and downed the rest of the water. "Mmmm, maybe," he said.

She took his glass and set it on the floor by the bed, holding the blanket loosely around her shoulders with one hand. "You'll get better fastest if you let yourself relax," she said, running her fingers through his hair. He'd slept on it oddly, and one side was crumpled and fluffy.

"And waste time lolling about?" he replied, reaching out to curl his arms around her and pull her toward him. "Unconscionable."

"Lolling about is good for you," she said, smiling and not resisting. "Enjoyable, even, from time to time."

"Is it, now?" he asked, curling around her and nuzzling her neck. "Do tell."

"Well, there are all sorts of things you can do while lolling about," she said, amused as she tipped her head back. "You can-" She paused to take in a breath as he hit the sensitive spot under her ear. "Well, you can do _that_." His lips left her neck and captured hers, but the next breath he took caught and he turned his head to one side, coughing hard.

She opened her eyes, looking up at him worriedly. "Are you okay?" she asked when the coughing didn't stop right away. "Damn," he grated through the coughing as it eased a little. "Ugh... _damn..._"

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and wrapped the blanket around her again. "I'll get you a glass of water." He pulled in a breath and coughed some more, pulling the blanket around himself and lying down, his face turned to the side and pressed against the pillow in search of a cool spot. He scowled and waited for her to return. She brought back the refilled glass quickly, sitting down once more on his side of the bed. She didn't say anything, just held it out to him. He sat up, still coughing in that quiet, rapid manner that spoke of an involuntary reaction, and took the water, drinking it until he spluttered.

"Careful," she cautioned softly. "Take it easy." She took the glass back when he was done, setting it aside and laying alongside him again, her hand on his chest. "It'll pass. And it's not likely to take a month, either," she added, referring to her bout with pneumonia more than a year ago.

He lay back, closing his eyes and catching his breath still coughing occasionally. "Mmmh, let's hope not."

She pressed a light kiss to his shoulder. "Spend today in bed and I'm sure you'll be on your feet again tomorrow." She muttered something that may have been "worst patient ever," though it could also have been "first waist in Denver," and rolled away from him and off the edge of the bed with a thump, standing up nonchalantly. "I meant to do that." She pulled some cleanish clothes out of the pile and got dressed.

"Mmmfh," came the reply as he cracked open an eye to look at her before closing it again. With a sigh, he pulled the blankets up over himself. She looked down at him, pausing before putting on her shirt. She looked towards the living room, and her actuators walked in like half a spider. She pulled the harness on and fastened it, making a pained _gnk _sound as the needles sank home, then threading her shirt on over them. Octavius remained motionless, merely a large lump of blankets with black hair sticking out of the top. She headed out into the main room, calling up the map that he'd checked on the computer the day before. The house he'd indicated wasn't far off, north of where they were now. She memorized the directions and set about packing her stuff back into the bag she'd brought it in, taking considerably more care this time. She eventually, and reluctantly, decided that she would have to make two trips if she wanted to make any sort of speed at all. It took three free actuators to race across the roof tops, which only left one and her own arms to carry loads. So she picked up the scanner and the bag of supplies and then leaned her head into the bedroom again. "I'm going now. I'll be back soon," she said to the lump under the blankets.

He barely registered what she said, and rolled over with a sleepy "Mmmhm," before sinking further into the pillows, his mind drifting. He wondered vaguely if the painkiller was doing this to him, but he was really too tired to care.

She shut the bedroom door and crossed the room, opening the window and crawling out. The rain had stopped, though the air was still heavy and wet enough that she was glad he'd stopped insisting on coming with her. She crossed the rooftop, and the next, going as quietly as she could, since it was late morning. She should have done this at night, perhaps, but she didn't know if the new place had electricity, and she would need the light to set up her new laboratory.

She reached the house and looked down at the back of it from the branches of a tree across the alley. It looked ordinary, slightly run-down, but unremarkable. Perfect. She crept down her tree, careful not to snag her load on the branches, and sprinted across the alley, checking that no one saw. The neighborhood was quiet, with nearly no traffic out front. Very much like the last house they had had. She found a broken window in the side of the garage and was about to climb inside when she heard a sound from the front.

The sound turned out to be footsteps, and the slight form of a white-haired old lady came into view. She was very thin and small, her hair cut short and surrounding her head in a soft, chin-length bob, and she wore a thick parka of an indistinguishable shade of blue, a scarf around her neck. Under the parka hung a length of warm grey skirt that hung almost to her ankles, and insulated boots covered her feet. One gloved hand went up to her mouth, and she gasped, "Oh my..."

Clair went very still, drawing herself up straight, staring down at the woman from the full height of the actuators. She looked... vaguely familiar, as if she resembled someone that Clair knew. "Don't scream," she said, trying to think of what to do next. It had been one thing to silence Hanover and carry him off, but this was a little old lady, someone's grandmother. She wasn't that hardened. She would just have to find somewhere else. She sighed, and turned to leave.

"Do ... do you know Otto?" the old lady asked hesitantly, standing in the snow and looking strangely small.

Clair turned back, surprised, and looked down at her again. "Do you?"

"Yes... well, I did. It was a long time ago," she replied, looking at the house.

Clair looked between the house and the lady. "Are you... May?" she asked, lowering herself back to the ground. "May Parker?"

"Yes," she replied, taking an involuntary step backward. She appeared to think on something, and then continued. "Are you that Doctor Holmes that everyone is saying Otto kidnapped?"

She swept the actuators back behind her, as much out of sight as possible, and nodded. "But I wouldn't call it a kidnapping. More my idea than his."

A smile crossed May's features, her eyes twinkling. "He has that effect on people, doesn't he?" she asked.

Clair smiled despite herself. "He really does." She looked down at the snow, then up at May again. Tiny, but still taller than Clair. "I'll understand if you say no, but... come in? I haven't had a real conversation with any one other than Otto in months, and you're probably the first person I've met who isn't terrified by these." She shrugged and the actuators rippled.

There was a pause, and then she nodded, that same smile still on her face. "Why not?" he said. She reached into her purse, a formidable, tan granny-bag of holding, and retrieved a set of keys. "I still have the keys after all these years," she said, her smile turning somewhat impish. She opened the door and walked in, tutting at the dust on the floor and furnishings.

Clair followed her in, setting down the scanner and supplies on the Formica-topped kitchen table. "My name is Clair, by the way," she said impulsively, looking around, watching the woman. There was an innocence there, and a self-possession there to balance it. She could see why Otto might have been fond of her. She wondered if she knew what her nephew did.

"Clair... that's a pretty name," she said, reaching under the sink and retrieving a cloth, turning the faucet. It groaned and spluttered but finally brought forth water, and she held the cloth under it. "I don't know how he keeps the bills paid on this place," she mused. "He really does think of everything. Excuse me, dear." She walked to the table and proceeded to wipe the dust from it.

Clair watched her a moment longer, amused, and then got a second rag from under the sink and worked alongside her, cleaning the kitchen one surface at a time. She kept the actuators low and quiet, out of sight and out of mind. "He told me that he nearly married you once," she said, wiping the counter clean.

She paused, and then laughed quietly. "Yes, yes he did," she replied, her voice sounding strangely fond, her smile that of one caught in a memory. "I still have the ring he gave me... I found it in a box not too long ago. A friend of mine told me I could get a lot of money selling it on the internet, but I decided to keep it."

Clair nodded, remembering that Spider-Man, Peter had told them that. She felt a little awkward talking to this woman, when she'd been ready to trepan her nephew so recently. "Why did you come here today?" she asked, curious. "That was years ago, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said, busying herself with more dusting and cleaning. "A very long time ago. But I come here once a year, just to check up on the place. I think Otto probably would have liked that."

Clair marvelled at the coincidence that had brought them both here at the same time. "I'm sure he'll like to hear it. He told me that he was fond of you."

She made a small, amused sound. "Did he, now? Oh, he was a charmer, that Otto. Still is, I'd guess," she looked up at Clair, smiling.

Clair smiled, ducking her head. "Very much so," she said. She grinned. "He really did sweep me off my feet when we first met. In the literal sense, of course, rather than the romantic, but still."

This elicited another laugh. "Oh my goodness," she said.

Clair laughed as well, rinsing her cloth and wringing it out again. "I don't think I've ever been so scared as that first time I saw him. But at the end of the day, I didn't turn him in to the police, so I guess I felt ... something for him already. That time, it was kidnapping," she explained. "Years ago, when I was a student at the University."

"Oh, dear," May said, shaking her head. "He must have really needed something for him to have to do that."

"He was sick," Clair agreed. "And I was working on something that could help him. He helped me finish it, and I cured him. For the time being." She opened the basement door that led off the kitchen, peering down into the darkness. The light switch didn't work.

"Oh, dear," May said sympathetically. "I do hope he's all right." She joined Clair at the top of the stairs, looking down.

"He did have a relapse," she said, resigning to bring a flashlight when she made her second trip and turning away from the door. "That's why he found me again, in Seattle. But I put that right too." She sighed. "He's a difficult patient when he's sick, you know. I had to half-sedate him with painkillers to keep him in bed today, despite the fact that he's burning up with fever and coughing like a smoker."

May sighed and shook her head. "I worried about him sometimes, you know," she said. "Peter would sometimes tell me of whatever confrontation he'd had with him at the time, and it seemed to me that he just wasn't the same any more." She grossed to the stove again, looking in the dark wooden cupboards around it. ""And now he's sick," she tutted. Finding a can of soup, she frowned. "It'll have to do, I suppose."

Clair snerked. "That can must be at least ten years old, Ms. Parker. I cook for him just fine. He eats everything in sight, mostly."

"Well, it may be old, but this soup keeps forever," she replied. "Besides, I wouldn't feel right if I didn't send something along with you."

"If you insist," she laughed. "He's going to be just fine, though. It takes more than a simple infection to keep him down."

A little more searching revealed a few bottles of seasonings, among other things. "Oh, I'm sure of that. Still, no-one can say no to a little tender care, not even Otto." She smiled back at Clair.

"He certainly tries," Clair said ruefully. "Convinced he's immortal, I think. And he's very nearly right, fortunately. I don't suppose you saw the news, oh, two weeks ago?"

Dropping the contents of the soup can into a saucepan, May thought for a moment. "Two weeks ago... oh yes. There wasn't much, you know," she said, stirring water into it contemplatively. "They said he'd been shot and that he then ... escaped from the hospital. With your help?" she looked up at Clair again.

"A little, but mostly it was him. I wouldn't have had him taken to a hospital at all, but..." She spread her hands, sitting back on her actuators and watching the woman cook. "I'm a neurosurgeon, not a thoracic surgeon. I'm a little too specialized to be much help."

"You did what you could, dear," May replied though whether she was merely oblivious to the difference or simply taking it in stride wasn't clear. She turned a knob on the gas stove and it clicked repeatedly before finally lighting with a soft _foomp._ She set the saucepan on the stove and picked up a bottle of seasoning, shaking it. "You're taking care of him, now, right?" Her tone told Clair she was calmly and assuredly expecting the answer _yes._

"Of course," Clair assured her. "He's going to be just fine, as long as I can get him to take it easy." She sighed fondly. "That's the hard part."

"It always is," May replied. "But it's not something you can simply insist upon. Someone like Otto takes convincing and a gentle touch."

"Exactly," said Clair, relieved to be able to talk to someone who understood. "And I'm not very good at that. I have a lousy bedside manner. I'm a very good surgeon, but a very bad doctor, if you know what I mean."

May shook her head, smiling, and stirred some of the seasoning into the soup. "I think you might be better at it than you think you are, dear. It comes from what you feel, not what you know."

Clair shook her head. "It's always about control. I'm used to being in control, and he's used to being in control, and neither of us relinquish it very well."

"You're over-thinking it, Clair, dear," she said gently, stirring in another few shakes of a different seasoning. "Caring for someone isn't about control... not directly, anyway." She smiled again. Her gaze went to the table. "That isn't all you were going to bring here, is it?" she finished with a strangely knowing look.

Clair looked at her blankly for a moment, than back at her things. "No, it's not. How did you...?" She looked back at May. "I have to make one more trip. Will you still be here when I get back? It's nice to have someone to talk to."

She nodded. "Oh, yes, I'll still be here. You run along and get the rest of your things, and this should be ready by the time you come back."

Clair smiled and went to leave, then turned back, stuck by a sudden thought that made her nervous. "You won't tell Peter, will you? That I'm here, I mean."

"No, probably not," she said after a moment. "He has enough to worry about, I think." She smiled that knowing smile again.

Clair grinned, tipped her wool hat, and left with an "I'll be right back." In a remarkably good mood, she made good time getting back to the apartment, and she rubbed her hands together to warm them again while looking in on Otto. He was still asleep, curled up under the quilts and snoring softly, not much visible beyond his face and some of his hair.

"Just where I left you," she murmured. She pocketed the little bottle of painkillers as she left again, hefting the microscope and her heavy box of notes and closing the window once more behind her.

Back at the house, brief thoughts of a trap slid through her mind, but she slipped in quietly, setting her things down in the entry. She could smell soup as she came in, and it smelled quite good. In the kitchen, May looked trough the drawers and cupboards for a bowl. She looked up as Clair walked in. "Oh, hello, dear. Did you bring everything you needed?"

Clair took a deep, appreciative breath. "Oh, yes. That smells delicious, Ms. Parker."

"Thank you, dear. I think maybe Otto will like it."

"I'm sure he will. He was asleep when I looked in on him, though. I'm hoping-" She held up crossed fingers. "That he sleeps all day. It'll do him a lot of good, but it means that I'll have to reheat that. Unless the scent wakes him up the moment I bring it into the house." She smiled, pulling the flashlight she had picked up at the apartment out of her pocket. "He generally does wake up for food."

"This is true," May replied softly, still smiling. It seemed that she smiled at almost everything.

Clair smiled back and descended into the basement, looking around by the beam of the flashlight. It was empty, with a fine layer of dust covering long, bare shelves and the single bare bulb over-head. She sighed. It would work, but her old lab was better by far. She went back up the steps and brought her supplies down, taking them out of the bag and arranging them on the shelves. The scanner and microscope went on a counter by an old washer and dryer, and the heavy box of notes would stay on the floor by the door until she could sort them. Satisfied for the moment - she wasn't going to get to work while May was here, after all, no matter how unfazable the woman seemed - she climbed back into the kitchen.

"Would you like me to get you some new light bulbs, dear?" May asked having poured the soup into a bowl and covered it. She reached out and flipped a switch, turning on the light over the kitchen table. "The electricity seems to work fine, here." She shook her head again, smiling. "That Otto..."

Clair looked up at the light. Such a simple thing, yet it meant a great deal of forethought and planning. Someone paid to have the power kept on here. And he must have set it up beforehand, because she had never seen him deal with something as mundane as _bills _in all the time she'd lived with him. "Um, no," she said, slightly distracted. "I have some at the flat. Thank you. And thank you for the soup."

"You're quite welcome, dear," May replied, placing the bowl of soup on the counter.

Clair took a seat at the table, turning the chair to face the woman and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. The actuators wove around the table legs. "How do you do it?" she asked, intently curious. "You know what your nephew does. You know that Otto and he are... at odds. How do you keep that from dividing you, when you care about them both?"

She leaned against the counter and appeared to think on this for a long moment. "I love Peter," she said. "More than he'll probably ever know. And I know what he does is... necessary. I don't like what he does, but I know that he has to do it. And I'm proud of him for taking the responsibility to do it. I know it's probably very easy to hate the enemies he's made along the way, I know some of them seem like truly dreadful people. But I've come to know some of them, like Harry Osborn, and Otto. I suppose all I can really do is hope, when Peter has to fight Otto for whatever reason, that they both come out of it alive, and I suppose I hope, every time he encounters Peter, that maybe that time Otto will decide it isn't what he wants to do any more. He has before, after all from what I've heard."

"I don't know about that," said Clair, studying the floor. "I don't think it's in him to retire, shall we say. He honestly seems to enjoy the way we live, and to tell the truth, so do I."

"Well, I won't lecture you, dear, you're a grown woman after all. All I can do is hope that neither of you will do something you'll regret, later," May replied, sounding almost wistful. "Otto always did seem to enjoy danger, didn't he?" she mused softly, after a moment.

"As long as I'm not in it," Clair said ironically.

"Oh?" she asked, blinking at Clair.

"At times, he can be almost stiflingly over-protective," she said, sighing. "And I suppose he has his reasons. This isn't a safe life to lead. But he wants to protect me from _everything_, and that's just not possible. I didn't leave one bubble to live in another." She was probably saying more than she should to this woman whom she had only just met, but there was something about her that made her _feel _like a confidante. Or maybe it was just that May was the first woman Clair had spoken to in over a year who wasn't a law enforcement officer.

May started to hunt through the cupboards again, coming up with a box of what looked like teabags. She sniffed at it experimentally, then located a kettle and filled it with water. "I don't know for sure," she said, sounding as though she were really thinking on this. "But I think Otto is fiercely protective of the things and people that are important to him because he doesn't want to lose them." The kettle went on the stove, which was started up again, and she found two mugs, busying herself with placing teabags in them.

"That's what he says," Clair answered. "When he's tired enough to admit to things like that. I know he's lost before, and so I don't know how to convince him that he won't lose me. I don't know how to convince _me _of that, for that matter. I've been scared a few times, for my life and his, because they're more or less the same now, I feel."

"Maybe he feels the same way. It seemed to me that Otto feels things very strongly." The kettle blurbled behind her and she looked at the mugs.

Clair reached out an actuator and took the kettle, pouring the water over the teabags. "Absolutely," she agreed, handing one mug to May. "Everything's extreme with him. On or off, with no intermediate state. It's one of the things I love about him."

"Do you love him?" she asked, nothing but curiosity in her voice. She swished the teabag in the water.

Clair stopped. "Now that's the question, isn't it?" she said softly, staring into her tea. "I exist for him, I belong to him, and I want him to be simply happy, no matter what it takes. Is that love?"

May sipped her tea and looked at Clair. There was a pause before she answered. "I would think so. What do you think, though? Do you think it's love?"

Clair took a deep breath and a sip of tea. "Yes," she said simply.

"Then it is," May said with a nod.

Clair looked up at May, letting out that breath. "I wish... I wish I had an aunt like you," she said genuinely, smiling. "Peter's lucky."

"And I'm lucky to have Peter," she replied, gazing contemplatively into her teacup.

Clair grew quiet. She couldn't promise this woman that she would leave Peter alone, despite everything. The bug would still insist on interfering in their lives, and she still owed him for a number of broken bones, not to mention some of the injuries that Otto was still recovering from. She studied the patterns the steam made on the surface of her tea, and then pushed back from the table and stood up. "I really should get going," she said, smiling again. "It was wonderful to meet you, Ms. Parker, and thank you so much for the soup and... I'll make sure Otto knows it's from you."

"Thank you, dear," May said, reaching out to take the cup from her hands. "Take care of Otto. I know he'll take care of you." She set about washing the cups.

Clair picked up the covered bowl. "I will," she promised, and let herself out, feeling such a mixed variety of relief that she felt a little light-headed. She headed back to the flat, letting herself in quietly, and checked on Otto again, more for the joy of seeing him than any real concern right now.

He stirred slightly at the sound of her entrance and his eyes opened. He blinked up at her.

She grinned at him, and held up the bowl of soup. It was still warm. "You'll never guess who I ran into," she said, an actuator fetching a spoon from the kitchen before she went into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Ran into?" he mumbled. "Ran into where?"

"At the house. May Parker was there."

He sighed, closing his eyes. "You went anyway--" They opened again. "What? May Parker? What in the world was she doing there?"

"She told me that she still checks on the place for you, once a year," she said. "And she still had the keys, so I didn't have to climb in through a broken window."

He smiled almost in spite of himself and shook his head. "Hmmm..."

She uncovered the soup and pulled out a thick, heavy book to use as a table. "She made you soup," she said, smiling amusedly.

He looked down at it, blinking at the noodles and chicken and broth. "When did she find time to do that?" he asked, looking back up at her. He suddenly appeared a lot younger, strangely.

"I was gone a lot longer than I meant to be," she said apologetically. "We got to talking."

He made a short, amused sound. "That sounds amusingly absurd, given the circumstances," he murmured, plucking the spoon from her actuator and slurping some of the soup.

"It was fun," she said. "I haven't gotten to have a conversation with anyone other than you in quite some time. Hanover doesn't count," she added. "Snarking is not conversation."

"Mmm," he said in assent. There was a pause as he slerped. "How is she?" he asked.

"She's good," she said. "She seems... content."

"I'm glad," he said, still slerping. "It's a rare thing, contentment."

"Not really." She sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed and watching him.

He looked down at her and smiled slightly. "You don't think so?"

She shook her head. "I'm rather content right now."

"Are you, now?" he asked, looking amused. He slerped more of the soup, breathing the scent of it.

"Mmhmm." She was aware that she was smiling somewhat foolishly, but she wasn't sure why or how to stop. He simply smiled that slight smile of his again, and continued eating.

"You're laughing at me," she said, amused herself.

"Nonsense," he replied, finishing up the soup and utting the bowl on the table next to the bed. "I don't laugh at people."

"Feh," she said to that, sliding her hand under the blankets to tickle the back of his knee. "I don't believe you. You've laughed at me plenty of times."

"When have I ever done that?" he asked, smirking and sounding as though he didn't beleive a word she said. he twitched his knee away from her fingers.

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "Too many times to count. Whenever I'm being naive, generally."

"I find naivete amusing," Octavius replied.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm glad I amuse you, then."

"As well you should be," he replied loftily, making room for her on the bed.

She got up and lay next to him, on her side to accommodate the actuators. "Would you ever retire?" she asked solemnly, looking at him. "Decide that this isn't what you want to do anymore?" He blinked at her, then his brow furrowed and his lower lip poked out, the face he always wore when he thought about something very hard. She had to stifle a chuckle at that face, which was... not cute, but certainly endearing. "It came up, you know, in conversation, and I was wondering."

He blinked, giving this serious thought. He'd thought of retirement before, thought of hanging up the actuators and living quietly somewhere, with no Spider-man, without the constant danger of messy death, without having to fight for or steal every last thing he needed. True, this life had gotten tiresome at times, and depressing at others. He looked up at Clair again. He had no idea. "I ... don't know," he said after a moment.

She nodded. "Neither do I. I was thinking about it all the way home. I really can't imagine you with a day job, though."

He chuckled at that. "Calling people for a telemarketing interest."

"Selling encyclopedias door to door," she suggested, trying to keep a straight face. "Or..." She snerked. "Selling used cars."

"I don't think I could see myself doing that." He shook his head, smirking. His expression grew serious. "But I had thought of retirement. A long time ago."

"What kept you from doing it?" she asked softly.

"The bug's interference, mostly," he replied. "And a realization that it would never really work."

"I think it could, if you wanted it," she said, considering. "Find someplace they'd never think to look, like France, or Australia. Live quietly. But I don't think it would be much of a life. Not after everything you've done."

"Hmmm," he rumbled, settling back into the pillows. "The thought had crossed my mind. He blinked at her. "How did this come up?"

"Just talking to Ms. Parker," she said, leaning up on one elbow, her hand under her chin. "She knows what Peter does, you know."

"I'd be surprised if she didn't."

"And yet, she's the most... un-conflicted person I've ever met. She just hopes that neither of you kills the other, and that maybe, something will change your mind."

"She's a sweet, patient woman," he mused, his gaze far away.

"She reminds me of my high school English teacher. Hopelessly innocent, yet... I don't know."

He smiled at that, but said nothing.

She sat up. "Are you feeling any better now? Chest any clearer?"

He pulled in a breath and sighed. "More or less," he replied, one hand rubbing his chest absently. He still looked woozy, though, and he rubbed his face with the other hand.

She eyed him critically, and then changed tactics. "I'm more or less set up again. The house has power, so I just have to do some cleaning down in the basement and find some new equipment and I'll be ready to go again."

"Mmm," he said, pushing a hand through his hair and blinking. "What sort of new equipment?"

"Autoclave, centrifuge, incubator. Just stuff I had before. Easily replaceable."

He nodded. "Shouldn't be difficult," he replied. He looked at the window. "The biggest problem might be our prisoner."

"I thought he might be easiest to transport unconscious," she said.

Octavius shifted, making himself comfortable. "I suppose you would know these things best," he observed.

She looked at him sideways, trying to see if he was being sarcastic, but actually, he looked rather serious. "I know I'm still new at this, but I am learning. I've got a good teacher."

He raised his eyebrows. "Flattery, is it, now?" He asked, smiling slightly.

"Well, yes," she said, grinning. "But it's honest flattery, at least."

"So I'm to believe it, is that it?" he asked, his smirk widening a little.

"Of course. Have you ever known me to lie to you?"

A beat. "No, not that I know of, but by its very nature, you could be lying to me and I would never know."

"I have _never _lied to you," she said seriously. "Not once, from the very beginning."

He gazed at her for a moment, again not saying anything. "I believe you," he murmured.

She held his gaze for a long moment, then looked down, busying her hands in unbuttoning her sweater and getting her actuators off. Once they'd fallen away, she leaned against his side, sighing, deeply content. She knew there were things she should be doing: she should be in that basement, checking and re-checking her notes and supplies, but right now, she just wanted to be with him.

He blinked at her, then slipped his arms around her. "Strange," he murmured.

"What?" she asked softly. "What's strange?"

"Simply the coincidence that you would run into May Parker the day you decided to sneak out to the house," he murmured. "If you believe in coincidence."

"Hmm. Coincidence or not, I'm glad I did. It gave me a chance to think somethings over."

One hand came up and rested on the back of her neck, fingers curling in her hair. "Oh?" he asked softly. "Such as?"

"Just things," she said lightly, kissing him on the angle of the jaw.

"Mmmm," he rumbled, lightly scratching the back of her neck. "You'll tell me sooner or later."

"Mmm," she said noncommittally. "That feels good."

His eyes slipped shut and he continued scratching. Her slight warmth against him somehow made him feel sleepy again. He blinked, rubbing his eyes.

She rolled her shoulders, easing them. "I didn't sneak out, you know," she said. "I told you I was leaving."

"Did you? I didn't hear a thing," he replied.

She made a considering sound. "You could have been asleep by then."

"Especially after those painkillers you gave me. I don't know whether to be angry at this or proud."

She didn't try to deny anything. "Underhanded, I know, but you really did need the sleep."

"It's left me groggy," he groused. "I'll probably end up falling asleep again if I'm not careful. But that's what you were after all along, isn't it?" his tone sounded mildly amused.

"More or less," she admitted, relieved that he had chosen to be amused. "I know you think sleep is a waste of time, but it's important, especially when you're sick."

Another sigh. "Someone once said, 'only a fool argues with his doctor,'" he mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.

She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. "Sounds like wise advice."

"Doctors have a tendency to make the things they want happen regardless of what anyone else wants." He chuckled sleepily and curled his fingers in her hair again.

"Says _Doctor _Octopus," she quipped.

"Mmmm. I never said I was any different."

She reached up and pulled his hand out of her hair so she could hold it, lacing her fingers into his. "No, you didn't."

"Quite," he mumbled, his hand squeezing hers briefly.

She was quiet, hoping that he would fall back to sleep. He sounded much better, but he still had a fever. Rest really was the best medicine.

It felt inordinately good to have her curled against him, but he noticed even the blankets and the pillow and the mattress and the fact that his eyes were closed also felt inordinately good. He didn't want to move. A tiny, somewhat annoyed part of his mind didn't like the idea of wasting more time asleep, but it was easily muffled by the sleepiness. He sighed and let his mind drift, thoughts wandering.

Clair lay there, just listening to his heartbeat and thinking on what May had said. She did love him. And she'd known that the whole time, whether she'd realized before today or not.

She studied the way her hand fit into his as she felt him relax into sleep, examining idly the way his seemed just to absorb hers. Their life felt a little like that, at times. His was such a big thing, grand plots and schemes, wild adventures and the like, while hers was the small concerns; behind the scenes and invisible. She would never be as visible as he was. And she liked it that way, she had discovered at some point. When she'd met him, she'd told him that recognition was one of the most important parts of discovery. He'd understood that then, but now she understood more about what that meant to her. It didn't matter if the world never knew that Ockette had once been Clair Ann Watson, inventor of the Neuroregenesis Serum. All that mattered was that the _right_ people knew who she was and what she was capable of. And the most important of those people was sleeping next to her, breathing evenly and deeply, with only the slightest trace of cough left. He knew that she was more than the child she looked like, more than the Stockholm-sufferer that the Bugle painted her as, and that was what mattered. She would prove herself to the rest of the world, but even if she never did, his recognition would be enough.


	10. Experiments

**Unreasonable Addiction III**

**Chapter 10 - Celebrate?**

By Yumegari and LRK, ed. Skylanth.

* * *

A few days later found them firmly ensconced in the old house with its mahogany furnishings, steeped in someone else's memories and smelling faintly of dust bunnies and mothballs. They'd cleaned the place, replaced light bulbs, stocked the cupboards and refrigerator, and locked Hanover in a spare bedroom, much to his vociferous objection. 

For Octavius, it was just another move, albeit a move to a place he already knew. But Clair, although no stranger to relocation herself, hadn't done it nearly as much, and he sometimes simply found himself watching her as she happily arranged her things or his things, or explored the rooms.

He'd found it a strange role reversal when she came home one day, arms and two actuators holding the various laboratory apparati that she'd pilfered, looking as though she'd gone on a particularly lavish shopping trip. He'd looked up from his reading at the clattering noise of her return, and there she'd been, grinning widely, her hair wet with rain, bruised, and her coat and actuators scuffed, little bits of webbing still clinging to them. He hadn't known whether to laugh or leave the room or tell her not to be so cocky or be proud of her, but he'd patiently combed the sticky stuff out of her hair like she'd done for him so many times, and she'd kissed him hard, still riding on the euphoria. He vaguely remembered their clothing being tossed in haphazard heaps about the living room and what happened afterward, instead remembering waking up on the couch to the scent of waffles.

The memory brought an odd, thoughtful smile to his face, now, as he watched her prepare her serum for the _nth_ time, as she hummed along with the song she listened to. He put down the nanowelder and pushed the powerful magnifying goggles up onto his forehead and watched her quietly.

She stirred the last batch of serum, this one very specialized and nearly complete, with a glass pipette and made a slide, checking it under the microscope. The finished form of the carrier virus absorbed the serum as she watched through the eyepieces, and she stepped back, pushing her hair back from her face with both hands and grinning with satisfaction. She pulled off her headphones, disentangled herself from their long cord, and looked over at him, pulling her glasses out of her hair and putting them back on, blinking for a moment as her eyes adjusted. "I think it's ready," she said quietly, but he could hear the excitement in her voice.

He pulled the goggles completely from his head, standing and crossing the room to peer into the microscope himself. It certainly did look ready. He looked up at her, slipping an arm around her. "Now what?"

"Time to test it," she said, looking up at the basement ceiling, above which she could hear Hanover's relentless pacing. Their prisoner had probably covered miles; four steps across the room, turn, and four steps back. Over and over and over.

Octavius looked up, too. "Something tells me I won't envy you the job of restraining him. I don't think he's altogether here, if you take my meaning." He grinned evilly.

She laughed. "I'm not much interested in his psychological welfare, you know. If I were, I wouldn't have put him in the bedroom next to ours." She looked innocent, though a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Though I'm not really sure that he was altogether there to begin with."

"If he hunted me down for that long, I should say not," Octavius harrumphed.

"Yes, it takes a real nutcase to be obsessed with you," she said, smiling as she headed upstairs.

"I'll have you know that you said that, not me," he said, following her.

"Well, no one's accused me of sanity yet," she added, smirking as she headed into their bedroom, where she'd left her actuators, taking off her labcoat and unbuttoning her blouse.

"Sanity is overrated," he rumbled, smiling wolfishly and snaking an arm around her, leaning in to nibble her ear.

She chuckled and finished unbuttoning her shirt. "So you've said," she said, leaving it open and turning to kiss him. "You're preaching to the choir, Otto."

"It bears repeating, is all," he murmured against her neck, one hand already sliding up her middle.

"Hmm," she said, covering his hand with hers and tipping her head back. "Yes it does." Her other hand slid around the back of his neck, thumb playing with his hair.

He closed his eyes, purring, his lips finding hers and capturing them for an instant before he pulled away. He looked at her sidelong. "Weren't you going to put those on?" he asked, indicating her actuators.

She nodded, getting up and walking over to them as they stood up to meet her. She slipped her arms into the harness and clicked the fasteners shut, groaning. "There has to be a way to make that easier," she said after a moment.

"I haven't found one yet," he replied. The pacing in the other room was louder and accompanied by ranting they could hear through the wall. "Hm. I wonder if there'll be anything left for you to test your virus on."

She looked over at the wall. "I'm not sure there was anything there to start with. But he's what I've got."

"True, that, but more subjects probably wouldn't be all that difficult to find." He debated for a moment which would play with their prisoner's head more--him with the actuators or without.

She smiled at that. "True, but I've had to listen to him for almost three weeks now. I'm really looking forward to shutting him up."

"Lovely," Octavius muttered, finally deciding he'd leave the actuators off for the moment. "Instead of grumbling sarcasm at us, he'll be grumbling nonsense." But he smile breifly at her anyway and walked out of the bedroom, stopping at the door to the room in which Hanover was kept and unlatching the locks.

"Nonsense is preferable to endless snark." Clair followed him, lifting herself up on the actuators so she could look over his shoulder.

"We'll see," Octavius hmphed. The door opened and they looked inside.

Hanover, for his part, leaned against the far wall and glared at them. He looked a little scruffy, unevenly shaven, his hair already growing out of the short cut he usually wore it in. His eyes were bloodshot and hollowed, more than a little manic-looking.

"You look like you haven't slept, Hanover. That's not good for you, you know." Clair watched him from behind Otto, unconsciously mimicking his usual threatening pose, hands clasped behind her back.

"Who's to blame for that, I wonder?" Hanover replied, glaring at Octavius. "What do you want?"

"Time for you to earn your keep," said Clair, stepping around Otto and into the room. "I'm sorry it took this long, but I had to redo some of the steps that were in progress when you took it in your head to interfere with our lives."

"What do you mean, 'earn my keep?'" He looked apprehensive, now.

"You didn't think I was just keeping you around for the fun of it, did you?" she said. "I'm a scientist, Hanover. I have experiments to run. And I need a subject."

"You ... you wouldn't..." Hanover suttered, paling and backing up until he found himself in a corner. He glanced at the door and at the window and back at the door, seeing Octavius lounging against it, smirking. "What'd you do to her?" he demanded, his fear momentarily forgotten.

Clair made an irritated sound and snapped two actuators forward to grab Hanover's wrists, dragging him forward.

Fear seized him, squeezing his breath, and he dug his heels against the floor almost instinctively. The look in her eyes told him all compassion had been burned away by her association with Octavius. They looked back at him, mirrors that told him nothing that lay within. Like a shark's eyes. As cold and unfeeling as the metal that grasped his wrists. He struggled harder, panicking now, his teeth clenched. Unbidden, all kinds of images of what she would do to him flickered through his mind--would she take out his brain and make it dream in a jar? Implant something in it to control him? Dissect him completely? Dissolve his neurons while he screamed? He couldn't bear to think of the pain that would await him. The tearing and cutting. But what he did know was that he did not want to die.

That thought clamped down on him and he pulled with all his might, the bones of his wrists grinding as he fought against the restraining actuators.

"You're just going to hurt yourself," she said impatiently, leaning forward as the actuators twisted around him and lifted him off the floor. "Scared, Hanover?"

"Only a fool wouldn't be afraid of what you've become!" he gasped, still struggling to free himself.

She laughed at that. "Glad to know you still have at least some of your wits intact. The results wouldn't be conclusive if you didn't." Grinning, she looked over her shoulder at Otto, still standing in the doorway.

Octavius watched her, saying nothing, almost distractedly returning her smile. It all seemed strangely surreal to him, watching someone else do the exact same kind of things he did. He stepped back, allowing her room to bring the captive out of the room and to the stairway.

She carried Hanover, who never stopped struggling, down to the basement and set him down on the table, pinning him with her actuators while she fastened restraints on his ankles and wrists.

He continued to struggle as she did this, his gaze full of fear.

"Come now," she said, turning away and picking up the vial of Zombie Virus. "I'm not going to cut you up, if that's what you're worried about." The vial fit into the depression near the head of her actuator as a needle extended from its claw. "Just a simple shot."

"What's in there?" he asked, his breathing fast and shallow now. A cold sweat stood out on his pale face.

"You've read my file, haven't you?" she said, untangling a tangle of leads from her Tesla scanner and holding his head still to place them. "The Neuroregenesis Serum. I'm testing, and that's where you come in, some new applications for it."

"What ... what new applications?" he asked, shaking now, his eyes rolling, following the movement of her hands as she fastened the leads. "What're you going to do to me?"

She shook her head. "Warning you might influence the results of the test." She fixed the last lead in place and stepped back around to the side of the table, fetching an alcohol-soaked swab from a jar on the counter and wiping the inside of his elbow. He tried to twitch his arms away, but the restraints wouldn't allow for it. He clenched his fists, and pulled. They held fast. Still staring at her, he made a panicked sound, and the needle caught his eye. He watched it while she tied a tournequit around his arm.

She positioned the needle and slid it into the vein, injecting half the vial's contents before releasing the band and withdrawing, stepping back and reaching behind her for a stool while an actuator brought her her notebook and a pen. She became aware that Octavius was standing behind her, intently watching the other, his arms folded and his face expressionless. He glanced down at her.

She perched on her stool, glancing back at Otto, then watching Hanover and the screens on her Tesla carefully. The green lines were steady in their patterns. Octavius' brows raised as the lines began to squiggle along the screen and Hanover sweated and moaned, his eyes screwed shut.

The lines spiked and squiggled and waved and Hanover moaned again, his hands twitching. His head swam and his breath came in loud, panicked gasps, his heart galloping. His consciousness wavered and fear seized him again. "No..." he moaned breathlessly as the world vibrated around him. "I don't wanna die... I don't wanna die ... I don't wanna die..." could be heard under his breath. He twitched harder, still muttering in a constant stream, even as the lines spiked and squiggled even more violently. "I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I DON--NNGGAAH!" His back arched and the readout suddenly spiked wildly.

Clair kept her eyes on the screen, only glancing occasionally at Hanover as she took notes. A muscle jumped in her jaw when he cried out, and she quickly fixed a pulse monitor on him. It was racing, but not dangerously so, as long as it didn't last long.

He twitched and cried out again, his brain slipping, forming holes, great yawning chasms he could strangely feel, and that terrified him. He shook violently, his squeezed eyes tearing, his hands clenching, and he moaned the same stream of words but he couldn't hear it over the thundering of his heart and the rushing in his head.

Clair made a surprised sound as one of the most violently spiking lines suddenly went flat, then another. "Look at that," she said softly. "It's working."

Octavius leaned in closer, watching the lines. "What has it done, specifically?" he asked, curiously.

She tapped the screen. "His Brocha's Area's gone dark. There was hyperstimulation, increased activity, and then complete failure. I didn't expect it to be so sudden, but that's _exactly _the result I was looking for." She looked back at Hanover. "As long as he survives."

True, now Octavius could make out what Hanover was muttering, and it was complete nonsense. He raised his brows and looked at Clair again. "No connection between the language and speech centers now." She turned on a tape recorder on the counter next to her, taping Hanover's babbling. "Aphasia"

Octavius leaned over her shoulder, looking between the Tesla readouts and Hanover. "And this is what you plan to do with Jameson?" he asked.

"Mmhmm." She nodded, taking more notes. "Now that I think about it, though, I don't think it'll change the headlines much." Octavius laughed outright at that.

Hanover, for his part, had calmed enough to hear, and what he heard he didn't like. "Orange," he slurred. "Push the string cap wobble... wh--" he trailed off, realising what his mouth was saying didn't match his thoughts. _No, damnit! Think! _"Can't stop the bubbles... AAAGH!" He squeezed his eyes shut again, his fists and teeth clenched.

Clair looked up at him and slid off her stool to come and stand over him. She shone a penlight in each eye, checking the dilation of his pupils, and looked at the Tesla again. Normal brain activity across the board except for the two flat lines. "Can you tell me your name?" she asked.

"Watermelon catch flip..." His face twisted. "GREEN!" He howled, his head dropping back onto the table. He sobbed quietly. _Bitch... You'll get what you deserve..._

She turned back to Otto. "Brocha's is a curious thing. You see, he knows what he means to say. But he can't verbalize it at all."

Octavius nodded. "Hmm. I see the potential in such a thing," he rumbled. His gaze slid back to Hanover. "Tell me more."

She smiled and held up a hand. "Watch this. I hope this works the way I think it will." She turned back to her subject. "Now, can you tell me _my _name?"

"Mnh?" Hanover siad, glaring at her.

"What's my name?" She repeated.

"Clair Holmes..." he mumbled, then screwed his face up again.

"See," she said, turning back to Otto. "Names, peoples' names, get their very own part of the brain, seperate from all other language. Except, curiously enough, for your own name, which is treated like any other word."

Octavius smirked at that. "Interesting, isn't it, how the brain works," he mused.

"Absolutely fascinating," Clair agreed. She looked down at Hanover, but he could tell that she wasn't looking at him, but rather visualizing the grey matter inside his skull. Hanover closed his eyes again, exhausted. It just wasn't fair...

Clair set about disconnecting the leads, peeling them off his head one by one after turning off the scanner. "I want to observe him for a few more days, make sure that the affected area won't begin recovering on its own. It shouldn't, but I want to be sure."

Octavius nodded. "That only makes sense."

She picked up her clipboard again. "Hanover," she said, drawing his attention. "I need to ask you some questions. Simple, yes or no. You can answer with a nod or a shake of the head. I just need to check that your intelligence isn't impaired. Well, such as it is, at any rate."

He scowled blackly at her, but nodded.

"You are Brian Hanover, FBI Agent, badge number 56973?" she asked, deliberately getting the number wrong.

He shook his head.

"Good." She made another note, then read the number correctly. She asked a few more questions, taking clinical notes at each of his responses.

"Wonderful. Now. Aside from the aphasia, are you still noticing any ill effects? Any headache, pain?" He shook his head again, still scowling, his eyes still wet.

She nodded. "Good. Now, if I unfasten your restraints, can you cooperate and walk back to your room, so I don't have to carry you again?"

If looks could kill, Octavius would have had to carry Clair's liquefied remains out in a bucket. But after a moment of glaring, Hanover nodded slowly. Two actuators undid the restrains, ankles first, then wrists. One lingered on the wrist that was still splinted straight, holding it gently but firmly. He sat up, glowering, and pulled his arm close to his chest, sliding off the table. His legs wobbled but held, and he made his way to the door, still scowling.

"Pull all the faces you want, Hanover," Clair said, looking down at her notebook. "Your situation won't change unless I decide to change it."

His fists clenched, and his expression didn't change, but he went quietly to the spare bedroom again.

Clair followed him and locked him in again almost distractedly, still writing down details. Back down in the lab, she calmly took the half-emptied vial out of its socket in her actuator, labelled it, and put it away, her fingers lingering on it before she closed the case. Then she spun, grinning. "It works!"

"Indeed it does," Octavius answere, smiling slightly.

She did her little victory dance, made odder by the presence of the actuators, and stopped before she threatened the glass in the room, throwing her arms around Otto. "It works _perfectly_!" she said, beaming up at him. "Just the Brocha, and nothing else." This sudden glomping took him by surprise, but after a beat, Octavius put his arms around her, simply enjoying her nearness. Her joy was, while not infectious, at least something that brought a smile to his own face.

"As soon as I'm sure that the effects are stable," she said, letting go and turning back to the notebook, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "I want to go ahead and infect Jameson. I need to think of a plan for that. Something subtle, something that will look incidental."

He sat on a chair and looked at her. "That just depends on your definition of subtle, first of all," he said.

She looked up, thinking. "Well, first of all, it's still my goal that Oscorp get the blame for this, so obviously, it has to be delivered as inconspicuously as possible. A needle-prick in a crowd would work best, or at night, while he sleeps."

"Hmm." The chair swivelled slowly. "I question the feasability of it, but it can be discussed." He looked at the door. "You've got time."

She sat back on her actuators, looking at him. "Well, what would you do?"

The chair swivelled idly in the other direction, turning him to face her. "Hmmm. I don't usually engineer things so that the blame is pinned on someone else," he mused. "And I don't usually work with things like viruses, not for a very long time, really. What I'd probably do is hire someone to go in and make the injection, someone who, to all evidence, looked to be in the employ of Oscorp."

She made a considering sound, and her actuators set her back on her feet. She paced back and forth across the lab. "That would work, I think. I could hire an actual Oscorp employee, for that matter."

"Every corporation's got its willing traitors and double agents. Ferreting them out is something else entirely, though."

Clair blinked. "I know absolutely nothing about corporate politics."

"It's irritating to deal with, to say the least, and time-consuming. Unless you want to bring this plan to fruition two years from now, you'd be better off hiring someone off the street and then hacking into Oscorp's records and forging an employee history."

Clair's shoulders sank. "That's not what I wanted to hear," she said reasonably. Then she shrugged. "We don't have to do this today. I want to celebrate."

"Celebrate?" he echoed, looking at her.

She smiled. "You are familiar with the concept, right?"

"Of course I am," Octavius replied a little uncomfortably.

She stretched her arms above her head, thinking. "I haven't seen a movie in more than a year."

"A movie?" He echoed, raising one eyebrow. "How do you plan to do this?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you know what your most recognizable feature is? Aside from the actuators."

"Do tell," he said, amusement creeping into his voice.

She pulled something out from under a counter. "It's that great black coat of yours." _This _was a dark blue jacket, unremarkable in every way, and a grey cap.

Octavius eyed the jacket. "Is it, now?"

"Absolutely," she said, grinning. "No one's seen you without it since the spandex days."

He reached out and plucked the jacket from her hands. "Hmmmm. You've a point."

"You might want to wear a shirt under it, though. It's cold out there."

The eyebrow again "You don't say." He turned and headed up the stairs to the bedroom.

She grinned and got on her lab computer briefly, looking up show-times, before following him upstairs. She joined him in the bedroom, and took the actuators off. "That's the next project," she said, half to herself while hunting for her own shirt. "Figure out a way to make that hurt less."

"Do let me know when you figure something out," Octavius observed drily. In a black shirt and black trousers, the blue jacket on over that, he looked... very un-Octavian.

"You look absolutely unlike yourself," she said approvingly, twisting her hair up under a hat once her shirt was on. She left her glasses in her pocket and shrugged into a red wool coat, presumably from the same unnamed source as his jacket, and almost as far away from her usual shades of grey as one could get.

"Hmm," he said. "That's a sufficient enough change, I think." He eyed the hat she'd handed him.

"Hmm," she said, looking at him. "I think we need to do something about your hair."

Looking up from the hat, he eyed her, next. "I daresay this... hat is enough."

She cocked her head. "You look like a retired rock star. Come on, just let me pull it back."

He rumbled at that until finally consenting. "Oh, very well. But don't get carried away."

She grabbed a hair brush and stood on the bed behind him so she could reach, running it through his hair with long strokes. "S'not fair," she comented lightly. "Your hair's still longer than mine."

He closed his eyes. "Mmmm," he rumbled. "That can be changed, you know."

"No way," she said, trading the brush for her fingers, combing it back from his temples and dividing it. Her fingers lingered in it as she began the braid at the nape of his neck, enjoying the feel of the dark strands slipping through her fingers. "I like it long."

"What _are _you doing?" he asked, trying to turn to look at her.

She held onto the braid, moving her hand with his head so it didn't pull, and smiled sheepishly at him. "I've always wanted to see what you'd look like with a braid. Please?"

"Hnnn... Oh, very well."

She made a happy sound and finished the braid quickly, tying it with a black elastic and jumping down off the bed so she could look at him. "Well, you don't look Chinese."

He looked at it in a mirror. It didn't look terrible, but it wasn't something he was going to want to continue wearing. "Hnnnn," he said, flicking it behind his shoulder again.

She snerked at him. "Just for tonight, Otto. It doesn't look bad."

He raised his eyebrows at her again. "Really, now?" he asked drily.

"But... if you're adding it to your daily wardrobe, you might want to brush up on your kung fu." That said, she immediately slipped out of the room.

There was a pause as he blinked at her retreating form. Damnit, but that woman was insufferable sometimes. But he didn't want to even think about what things would be like without her flitting about and making jokes. He followed her out the door.

She checked that she had her wallet and pulled on her gloves before opening the door and heading out. It was cold outside, but finally dry. She tucked her chin into the collar of her coat against the wind.

Behind her, he shut the door and looked up and down the street. No-one was about. That was good. He caught up with her, falling into step beside her and unconsciously slowing his pace. A year of living with her had ensured that much adaptation, at least. "And what are you planning for us to see, tonight?" he asked airily.

She kept her mouth hidden behind the collar of her coat, but her eyes betrayed her smile. "Star Trek Nine."

"Wh--" he started, then he blinked. "They're up to nine, now?"

She nodded, laughing. "Come on, Otto, I've _seen _you watch tv. How do you not know this? They'll keep making them forever, I expect. This is the first movie with the new cast in it, though."

He sighed. "I don't watch _that _much television," he grumped. "But you're right, they probably will."

Clair grinned. "As long as there are trekkies, Otto, there will be Star Trek movies."

"Mark that on my list of things to eradicate, then," he harrumphed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. A sideways glance followed that and a wry smile.

"Don't look at me," she said, chuckling. "I'm no trekkie." She didn't sound very convincing, and she changed the subject. "I want to see that list."

"It's rather long," he said looking ahead again. "Just a list of people who, in one way or another, would improve the stock of humanity only through their absence."

"How Darwinian of you," she said drily.

"Quite," he replied. Then he looked at her. "What, you don't agree?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. I can name a few people who belong on your list. Most of them are probably already there, though."

"Oh? Do tell." He pulled the cap a little lower over his eyes as they reached an area with more streetlamps and dug in the pockets of his jacket until he found a pair of shades.

She hummed the first few bars of "Sunglasses at night" before answering him. "Well, Osborn is first, obviously. The man should never have been allowed to reproduce. And Jameson, Hanover, and Brandon, just to name a few."

"Hmmm," he said. "Very specific, that," he replied.

"Oh, and the bug, of course."

He chuckled briefly at that. "Well, I"m not sure if humaity as a whole would be improved without the arachnid, but that's another discussion. However, I'm sure the world would be a much better place without, oh, let's see, people who can't keep their children quiet in public without resorting to the same loud, whiny behaviour, anyone who uses the word "like" more than once in a sentence, the entire clientele of any given Starbucks, Atkins dieters..." he trailed off, that same smile still on his face.

"Hey," she said with amused indignance. "I used to drink at Starbucks."

"Seeing as how you couldn't walk a block in any given direction in Seattle without encountering one, I doubt you had much choice, so you're excused," he answered. "Oh, and those who look as though they ought to be standing on a streetcorner and asking passing drivers if they want 'a good time.'" This last he overenunciated, his eyebrows raised.

They reached the small cinema as he said this. "Like them?" she asked, angling her head towards a group of teenaged girls who were clustered together. For warmth, she supposed, since none of them were wearing clothes that covered what they were meant to. She stuck her hands deeper into her pockets and shivered, just looking at them, and got in the line to buy tickets.

"Hnnn, yes."

"Good to know you wouldn't prefer me to dress like that," she said, making a face.

"I'd be mortified," was his reply.

"So would I." She paid for their tickets and headed in. "What do you want to drink with your popcorn?"

"Hm?" he said, looking back at her from staring into the crowd He could have sworn he saw..but that was impossible. "Oh, anything," he said vaguely. Or was it?

She ordered the snacks and rejoined him, looking up at him, then gazing around the lobby to see what he was looking at. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing. I just thought I saw someone."

"Who?" she asked absently, handing him his soda and heading into the theater, looking for seats. It wasn't crowded, and she edged along a row towards the very middle of the room, making sure there would be no one tall in front of her.

He shook his head. "I thought I saw Parker, of all people." Following Clair into the seats, he sat next to her and leaned back. Pulling the shades off, he sighed, rubbing his eyes.

She leaned back, propping her feet up and settling the popcorn between them. "Here? That would be too big a coincidence, don't you think?"

"Probably." He scooped up a handful of popcorn. "But I wouldn't put it past him."

"You have a point," she conceded as the last few stragglers came in and the lights dimmed. A couple sat right behind them, murmuring to each other. Clair sipped her drink and leaned against the arm of her seat towards Otto, watching the previews. "Something else you should think about eradicating," she murmured. "Companies that over-advertise."

"Heh. And no-one would notice they were gone, because something else would worm its way into their small attentions, instead," he replied quietly.

She snerked at that, tossing a piece of popcorn up and catching it in her mouth. "Very true."

The movie started and Octavius felt Clair lean against him, her small warmth relaxing. Idly, he pushed popcorn in his mouth and started a running count of all the scientific mistakes or glossings-over.

She smiled at his constant small mutterings. "Not to mention that the human brain just can't do _that_," she pointed out during one scene. "If it could, we wouldn't have met in the first place."

"True, true," he murmured in reply. Silence again, until he pointed again. "Oh, now that's just blatantly wrong."

"I wouldn't know," she said, stealing a sip of his soda. "Your department."

"Hey, couldja keep it down up there?" a voice hissed behind them. Octavius looked back curiously, then stared.

Clair turned around, looking between the seats, and almost jumped up. Sitting behind them were Peter Parker and a red-head who looked familiar.

"Wh..." Parker stuttered. "Ock? Holmes? What're you two--I mean-_-villains don't go to movies!_" he finally hissed, still staring, wide-eyed. The girl next to him bit her lip nervously. "Uhm, Pete," she started.

Clair cocked an eyebrow at him, surpressing the urge to laugh in his face. "I think the fact that we're here makes you wrong, _bug_," she whispered back, scowling.

"Well, yeah, but..." he apparently couldn't get past his dumbfoundedness until the girl poked him.

"Just ... leave 'em alone, Pete," she whispered. "Nobody wants a fight." But her green eyes watched Octavius and Clair the whole time.

Clair recognized her now. "Watson," she said softly, her eyes narrowing into a slight scowl. "Mary-Jane Watson, right? The actress?"

"Yes, why?" the other replied, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Do you have any idea how annoying you made high school for me?" She parroted a mincing, ditzy voice. "'So, like, are you related to that actress chick?'"

Mary-Jane's eyes narrowed. "It's not my fault you had stupid classmates. Y'know, Pete was right about you people." He shushed her, but it had already been said.

"'You people'?" Her eyes narrowed further. "What did _Pete _say about us?"

"Oh, nothing," Parker replied, but by that time both Clair and Octavius were turned around and looking at them, the movie going on unregarded behind them.

"Yes, do tell, Parker," Octavius drawled. Far from sounding insulted, like Clair, his tone was one of amusement.

"He said your type are always ready to blame other people for your problems," Mary-Jane hissed heatedly, not liking Clair's expression one bit.

"Hmm," said Clair. "That's what Hanover said."

"Hanover?" Peter echoed, his ears pricking. "When did you talk to Hanover? He's been missing for three weeks."

"Imagine that," Clair said, glancing sideways to Ock. "He must have taken a vacation. Gone home to Seattle, maybe."

"It's been three weeks of peace without Hanover showing up," Octavius added.

"No, wait," Clair said, smirking. "I may have heard something from him. Once or twice."

Peter didn't look entirely convinced, and Mary-Jane didn't look as though she liked Clair's smug look at all. "When's the last time you saw him?" he asked.

Clair tapped her chin, apparently thinking, then shrugged. "I don't remember. I'm just the sidekick. Don't you read the Bugle?"

"Nice to know Jameson isn't behind on his stupid names," Parker groused.

Clair rolled her eyes. "He will be soon. Actually, no, it won't make much difference."

A prod from Octavius. Parker narrowed his eyes. "You still on about that virus thing?"

Clair looked up at Otto, then back at Peter. "I've been working on 'that virus thing' since before we met, bug. You're a fool if you think I've given up because of a few setbacks."

"Whatever you're planning, you know I'll be there to stop you," Parker hissed. Behind Clair and Octavius, something exploded, the screen flickering more brightly and outlining the determined set to his features.

"Good luck with that," she said sarcastically. "Now, if you don't mind, I came here to watch a movie." Octavius made an amused sound at that and turned round, settling back into his seat and getting comfortable. Clair cast a final glance between the two and turned around as well, leaning against Otto and offering him the popcorn again. She was finding it strangely hard not to laugh out loud, even though it was a tense, tragic scene in the movie.

They could hear a "what was that all about" kind of conversation whispered behind them, but Octavius ignored it. These kinds of things were all part of the game, after all, and the arachnid and his girl were playing it so well. He smiled contentedly.

"You're quiet tonight," Clair commented after a while, during a lull in the action onscreen.

"Just enjoying a night out," he replied inscrutably, his eyes on the screen. Phasers fired and transporters flared and he didn't even comment on the wooly science.

"Hm." She watched him out of the side of her eyes a bit longer, then turned them back on the screen, where the crew of the Enterprise was, once again, saving themselves with faulty physics and flawed logic.

He noticed her tenseness. "Oh, calm down," he whispered, leaning toward her. "Nothing will happen, he has a secret identity to protect from those who still don't know it, after all."

Deliberately, she relaxed slightly and resisted glancing back again. "Of all the theaters in this city, he had to pick this theater," she muttered, leaning against his shoulder.

"Again, that depends on whether you beleive in coincidence," he murmured.

"I'm beginning to," she answered back. "It seems to play a rather important role in my life."

"Hmmm," he rumbled. One arm slipped around her and he fell quiet. She settled against him comfortably, slipping her hand into his where it wrapped around her waist. The movie went on, ending eventually with the expected huge crash of special effects and drama. Unwinding slowly, she stretched in her seat and offered Otto the last of the popcorn. He blinked at her, appearing to have almost dozed off, and looked behind him again, where Parker and Mary-Jane were already gathering their things and beating a hasty retreat. He laughed at that.

She watched them more seriously. "Do you think he's hoping to cut us off on our way home?"

"Hmm," he said, walking out into the aisle. "We could take a different way home." He seemed terribly confident.

"You sound far too sure of yourself," she said, sounding somewhat irate as she followed him. "I don't want to have to move again already. I _like _this house."

"I doubt he'll chase us out quite yet," he said. "It's not in his idiom."

"You're the expert," she said, but she stayed very close to him as they left the theater.

"We'll take a different way home and keep an eye out for Spider-man, how's that?" he asked, curling an arm around her.

"Sounds like a good idea," she said, leaning into him. Reaching the street, they turned left, rather than right, tracing a circuitous path around the quiet neighborhood.

The walk was uneventful until they reached a point maybe a block and a half away from the house, and a blue and red-clad figure dropped down from a streetlamp on a webline. Upside-down, Spider-man regarded Octavius through the inscrutable lenses of his mask. "Going home, Otto?" he asked.

Clair breathed out sharply through her nose and muttered something profane. "Can't you take a night off? Where'd you leave your girlfriend?"

"No, I can't, and she's safe," he replied, eyes narrowing behind the lenses.

"Spider-man, is there a point to your visiting like this? I highly doubt it's a social call," Octavius said smoothly.

He ker-pointed, an almost comically accusing gesture. "I know you're up to something, you and your girlfriend, here."

"Yet until we actually do something, you cannot act. That's how it's played, Spider-man."

"Yeah, well... I'll be watching you... Both of ya."

"Come on, bug," Clair said crossly. "Go back to your date. I daresay you stand her up often enough as it is."

"You... where do you... yeah, well, that's nonea your busines," he finally replied.

Clair rolled her eyes, amused by the bug's seeming incompetence, even though she knew that at least half of it was intentional.

"Oh, do go home, Spider-man. I assure you that you won't miss anything," Octavius told him.

"Yeah, I wouldn't believe you if you told me water was wet, Ock," the arachnid replied. "But, as it looks like you aren't up to anything now, I'll just retreat and keep and eye on you." And, with a _thwipp_, he was gone.

Clair looked after him. "You know, you and he have the strangest set of rules between you."

He nodded and continued walking. "It comes from being enemies for so long."

She tucked her hands into her pockets. "Makes sense. I remember Parker as being a very smart man, full of ideas about chivalry and nobility and right and wrong. Looks like nothing's changed." She snorted slightly. "Well, except for the wall-crawling."

"Hmmm," Octavius replied, appearing lost in thought for the moment.

Clair leaned against him slightly as they walked. "What's on your mind? The bug?"

"The fact that he's likely been this way all his life," Octavius mused.

"Some people," she said slowly, thinking about it. "Never have to change much. They can follow a track for their entire life and never have to step off it without knowing that they'll step back on again."

"Whereas others cannot?"

"Right. Some people can't do that at all. When you were in high school, did you ever imagine that you'd be doing what you do now?"

"Hmmm," he rumbled. "Not seriously."

"Neither did I," she said, looking forward again. "Until the day you took me from that lab, the only future I had in mind for myself was exactly what I was doing there. Endless experiments, and occasionally a success."

"Truth be told, it was more or less the future I'd had in mind, as well."

"I'm rather glad things didn't work out that way, myself," she said easily.

"You are?" he asked, looking at her.

"Of course I am," she said, surprised that he had to ask. "This, all of it, is infinitely better than living forever in the lab of some huge corporation. I'd probably be working for Oscorp even now."

"I suppose, in some ways, it is."

"And anyway," she continued, blushing slightly. "I wouldn't be with you. And that's enough."

He looked at her, his expression unreadable, for a few moments before curling an arm around her. "Yes," he said with a slight smile.

She leaned against him, happy. The rest of the walk home was peaceful, quiet, and spider-free.


End file.
